As yor my main pericardial rub,
I don’t listen to my own deep peril.
In taming me, by fashion of a hub,
There’s nothing left in life that’s safely feral.
Potential space can only be a cave
when queen is one in gawd with courtly knave;
You trace a paradox of my body
and bring the sounds that situate me, oddly.
"For you, Jan"
Conversations with Why
3 hours ago