swallowing the uncomfortable intimacy
of your lips, firm but slightly moist,
against my neck --
like seeing someone else's pants around her ankles
under the door of the bathroom stall --

i think of a soft mist falling,
but then i wonder: why soft?
after all, if it's just a matter of quantity,
then you are my Katrina, my tsunami, my Triton.

subtlety is just the poet's form of lying,
you say, that funny little twitch in your --
for a moment, i am sure you are winking,
but no --
rather, i am the words on your unlined paper.