There's the devil in the movement
Now, at the edges of my sight.
Into my works of hands she slides
The sullen rush and roar of flight.
A startled, syncopated jerk;
A movement to, a movement from;
The devil is a breath, a light,
A scream — this soft, electric thrum.
My devil is a teenaged girl
I never knew when we were young.
Her life and mind enmeshed in mine,
Her words and taste upon my tongue.
(The devil gets to everyone
and everyone gets, I've heard it said,
The devil that their life deserves —
Some shade of voice inside their head.)