Here's a girl from a dangerous town
She crops her dark hair short
So that less of her has to frown
When someone gets hurt.
She folds her memories like a parachute.
Dropped, she collects the peat
And cooks her veggies at home: they shoot
Here where they eat.
Ah, there's more sky in these parts than, say,
Ground. Hence her voice's pitch,
And her stare stains your retina like a gray
Bulb when you switch
Hemispheres, and her knee-length quilt
Skirt's cut to catch the squall,
I dream of her either loved or killed
Because the town's too small.
- Joseph Brodsky