D., me

the lines collect,
congregating in gregarious
collusion—
      we’ll be defrauded,
both of us,
thinking these words
have anything to say.

it’s the worst kind
of hypocorism, reducing
each other to diminutive
twiddles: dotted i’s,
crossed t’s; worse yet,

            it’s dangerous—
letting me roll around
in language like this,
letting me turn a phrase
around you, entwine you
in rhyme:

one uncial could be your
un-
      doing.

_