She jumped into the poet’s truck with a soaking wet head. He asked, Don’t you wanna dry your hair before church? Leave the windows down and it’ll dry in time, she said. Sure enough her hundred strands of corn-silk hair danced in the wind tunnel next to the poet’s face the whole way there. You look like a stained glass window, he said and loved her. She slapped him hard when the car was parked and he shattered all over the place like all sorts of geometry. Was that a compliment? The world will never know. But she is beautiful.