I wonder, if we pass in evening light,
you’ll sense I am an animal of night.
Or if your wary eyes are drawn to mine,
you’ll glimpse a normal girl: sheepish, benign?
Will your lips curve to form a new moon smile,
steps hesitate and pause, to talk awhile?
Or will you—heartbeat quickened—hurry by,
suspicious that the “normal” is a lie,
that underneath this wool a poet’s heart
hungers to savage words and name it art.
I crave to doff this coat, to stand exposed,
to howl each syllable, each verse composed.
I wonder, when you flee from me tonight,
if you’ll still strain to hear what I recite.