it lingers in her soul
a composition pile of plots
and thought-whistles blowing
forever whistling in the breeze
like a wandering stranger
finding non-homes
stranger than me.
“don’t get near me”
screaming
temptation the true soul
really inside me?
I differ but beg her
to stay with me.
she’s the mailbox
with the dropped jaw
begging for postal food
she’s begging to differ
silently and secretly agreeing
admiring me.
or is this a false truth?
she has a way of her
I beg differently
she has a way with me
makes me beg like a stranger
but she drapes my eyes
impossible to see
she looks suddenly
and I beg differently.
