She shackles flowers in a binder as sprinkles of conjugated showers fall onto pages in a wistful sigh, a crazed scream, the wrenched words canyons on paper loud as cannons when they're wrought, fired from a pen with bullets made of heavy meanings that melt crumble shatter on impact, leaving residues of symbolic facts I find futile. Fictitious codes cover the mouth with the hand and I'm forced to think she's lying. She buries truth in a book, behind metaphors of shrugs and half-glances, hiding within shoulder motion and the set of facial muscles. Those secret dimensional doors don't enrich existence, though, and she's no mystery. I know elusive definitions and boundaries incite defense, ambiguity forms the borderlines like that evil kitchen air that fogs window, blackens bananas, and whispers in creeks from the walls. And like, just the other night when we got in the car, I know she saw me shiver and look into the bushes, hair rising on my arms. I couldn't say---- or---- just kept my nerves composed and turned on the headlights.
