I feel the tickling
of a poem coming on
cool as fingers
on nascent nape
and I wonder
do you feel it
following behind
in the wake
of your walking?
this small disturbance
of my reluctant fervor
(in italics now)
I am lost beneath you
behind you,

I trail intemperate
in your passing
strangely content
with improbably possible
like all poems
impossibly true
and always never

© Sarah Whiteley


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