The drugs are lovers and they've tamed the thing inside her that might be A thread away, a breath . . . She has had a lover, she has not, She traces things. I'm reading what's been given To my palm. Her hands seem little hands. Not to have known them . . .
Serendipity plays hard to get.
Fractions in place. I'm half removed from southerly directions. Marshland covers stalwart grace placed firmly between fingers Of the proper handedness. Classic as synonymous for always, weathered, a resilient plain Of ovals in our path. She recommends, and I give back what has been taken.