En route to a conference
on the disenfranchised self,
she called a man she'd only
met through his essays, dizzied
by colon and double dash.
He really knew how to break
a sentence down to its knees.
He had read her treatise on
Dewey Dell. He whispered
I am picking into your sack
as she latched the Terminal
C stall. What are you wearing?
Overalls, flannel, straw hat.
We are in the field, we are
fashionably late for dinner,
and there is a sunset—
No, there is not a sunset.
I thought women fantasized
about the sky? Never
mind, I'm close, go back to that
one line. I am picking
and picking and picking into your sack.
