The escalating song
filters through her hair like sunlight.
Aggressively matches your steps
when you are alone.
It choirs from the clothing of strangers,
tears from the afternoon before you jump
into another jagged night. Few are immune
and you wonder if she brought it
in her overnight bag, slung your walls
and light fixtures with it.
Swelling wordless planless prognosis
irrevocable and tectonic, it cries like a cat
from the supermarket shelves,
hammers your eyes to your shoes.
Or maybe it was always there,
and she merely conducted the whispers
from their dormancy, fled with the jigsaw piece
between her teeth. Few are immune.
And you are just one man
bailing water from Atlantis, drunk
beneath a waning moon.