AP photo of a protestor in Haiti

I cannot see her face, but she is beautiful.
Black skinned, muscled taut in fury.
I can see her shoulder blades, the nave
between them, the supple skin caught by
the sun in motion, shimmering like metal.
A rock is in her hand, full of intent, but
what I am falling in love with
is her white dress, lapping at the base of her spine
exposing her long, lissome, torsional thighs.

~

Updike, young and at work

The writer archetype at his desk, typewriter
Offset and unspoiled, ten pound dictionary
Thrown open, archaic and Arthurian. The
Meticulous disorder of his many letters
And drafts, strewn about like dying leaves.

Cigarettes back when they were noble
Stubby, crumpled, filterless

~

Flannery, Iowa

Laughing with friends, though she stands
apart from the copse of smiling students.
Cute is the word, albeit the weak word,
that comes to mind. Sometimes weakness
is honesty. Cute Flannery, her mind filled
with unrepentant grace.