I dream troubadours whisper Provencal words against my neck.
An apothegm: my legs will not stop shaking.
An aphorism: about that which one does not know, one might do best by remaining silent.
Breathe, hold it in and hold in stillness, then release.
Prudence and patience,
my prowess has power adapted to the need.
I work in mystery-the intersection of suspense and anticipation in a heavily muted silence.
Decorously discreet both in dire straits and in heedlessness.
My obliging pruriency sure hopes he pries.