What might she send — a wet sleeve,
or platter of brine-latticed bluefish
dusky with capers, lemons, wine;
a briar for your thumb, a mouth,
lunatic, to suck the blood:
a signal that one too often
inside & now beside herself with thoughts
of you wonders how she might woo
and through dew-whetted keyhole
pursue & sing & win? She is marvelous
with waiting. Come. Hunt here.
Relieve with hands and tongue her heavy hour.