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Can I come and talk. I need it.
My life is
                        , she says
And thinks it has a pleasant sound,
Like Finesse, holds a healthy rhythm.
Pleasing to the ears.

Like Cadence, like Beloved,
Like the words Hope and Hopeless
(where she likes the sibilance, and skips the cliché),

How she would glut herself on words.
What she would do to speak
As she would like to, naked and bare soul philanthropic
Beneath an observant lens,
Making it easy, like Yes or No,
And never mispronounced. Oh bare bared soul

That it might lend her the weight to tell!
One cannot end the problem if one cannot begin.
Maybe the walls have ears
But she is Humans
And Decencies
And Nefarious in the night,
Standing
In an incense darkness, with all small religions,
The sunlight stigmata through the latticed screen,
Sandalwood openwork, linen and carmine red,
And leaning by the altar, Can I come and talk,
I need it, my life is

             , and hearing in the darkness nothing
And meaning Can, not May.