I’m a thousand leaves
drifting down from ancestral
trees—or perhaps an impetuous
storm deviously tossing ruby
red seas blazing beneath
erupting flares of a lunar
super corona.

Bohemian improv is
my ware, belligerent sautés
refined to finesse a faceless
lover who hurriedly vanishes
into a crystalline mist—having
no appetite to satiate my crave
for someone to know me.

Just know me.