If we leave the letter unwritten
saying nothing
deer leaning in the window salvaging for morsel of night 
grimacing when we stir, wind chimes with pointed feet
dancing awkwardly in ill-fitting clothes, vindicating a
suspicion of absurdity
turn from me then, until you stop being and I sit alone
watching faceless walls communing with plaster
you shape my days and can as easily, burn me standing
waiting for a word, a finger-tip, a smudge
for when you strike, you are a panther, encased in skin
charboiling my heart over wilting blossom
it is not possible to deny you
the switch of myself shivering electric
in that, we are alike, the one who loses her hair in bunches and you
who cook longing on high flame
hang yourself up on the back of my hook, let me catch you wriggling
in my wet fingers made into a cup
like rounding moons with promise will become fairy circles
when you emerge, dry-eyed and hot-skinned, let me lick the burn
ringing your throat like the words you will
strike out again and again in every ink
catching river stones in your mouth
under my tongue
stretch out, beckon me, consume my hope