And since she could only say back what she heard,
she had to listen for what she needed to say.
She haunted the edges of school yards first. Not it.
Lover’s lanes: hopeless. Cell phones seemed promising,
but really. She started reading novels
to put herself in the way of secret lives. It was the old story,
speed that was made to be followed, not repeated:
she remembered the ends of sentences, of sentences.