She thinks I will get lost in her bog.
I gather peat moss and leave.
A muddy encounter.  

She wants me to visit her garden.
I wave from the highway.
A technical move.  

She hopes I will walk into her rage.
I am the trigger, not the meal.
A cricket’s adieu.  

She tells me she wants stillness.
She is waiting for meat.
A carnivorous heart.