Doll, you’ve got it confused.
You are completely vulnerable when you forget to be in the-Moment.
You merely feel vulnerable when you find the-Moment and discover you had forgotten it.
You were wandering through the Meadow of What-If.
The Marshes of Why-I-Oughta.
Your home is in Right-Now and you never leave.
You keep forgetting.
Mountains do not need to be seen to largely loom.
A pond does not need to exist continually.
Seasonal droughts come before
the flooding of Springtime
with its garish blooms and hissyfit storms.
Cycles of forgetting to remember to not forget,
abiding by celestial currents among the degrees of inclination about the axis.
As pokes retch,
a spoke stretches,
from the rim’s circumference to the center axle.
Therein may we all meet.
The wrought iron chair scrapes patio stone, as I tuck into the table.
A thigh grazes mine, too innocuously.
Pressing its luck against me.
I look over to see averted eyes busily studying the hangnail of a left thumb.
“Rip it off or let it be,” I say.
Those eyes find mine.
I let my hair down. Disinterest feigned.
“Do you want to know what I’m thinking?” he asks me.
“No. If you wanted to tell me, you already would have. Besides, I already know.”
“What am I thinking?”
“You are thinking: I want her to ask me what I’m thinking.”
“Wishful and reductionist thinking.”
I seize the arms of my chair and rake my chair closer.
Outer thighs mashing in an intentional collision.
“Put your ear to my mouth. I want to whisper exactly what I am thinking,” I say.
An ear presents itself to my open lips; and hears,
out of my sweet mouth, sailor strings of profanity pouring piously.