how confusing it must be for a poet
to tell you she can't tell you
how she wants to say it
in written word.
is there a way she can truly
convince you of the reality
of the corner of her mouth
being bitten by her top row
of over-bitten teeth is as suggestive
as her hazel eyes are intent
at that moment.
she is now burning you
inside but she does not want to
tell you how you feel: she is not
living inside of you. she is
just visiting— for now.
could she be stirring something
if her smirk emerges while she writes
small digital letters? could she
at a distance, indeterminate,
draw you toward her?
the questions, the poet asks
at her desk, while drinking tea,
setting fires, and humming softly.
