Flustered, mind agape, silently wide-eyed,
I know not what sits behind her eyes.
She, a squirrel up a date palm, looking for acorns,
and I, a logical storm looking for a landing, apace,
we dance the squares of the place, tiled and tidy,
a touch of mildewed madness escaping. We spin.
She hides, a cushion pin stuck in the grimy wall.
Magenta stew toppled around her meaty face, her,
I stare across the room at only silhouette;
flat ribbon plastic words float to her
cordon her off like a crime scene
in the corner, dark, smoldering
punk in a steamy seamless-ness,
drunken porridge, we two–a corruption,
an oil leak of foul forethought.
She takes me home–her home–
a wondrous oak tree, reaching
branching, bleeding out the red roots.
We shuck seeds, plant acorns, see what grows.