Normally, I’d agree with Simonides, that men
are as simple as cattle in a field, knowing less
about what’s to come than a dog that yelps
when it’s whipped without ever understanding
the unexpected blows from a beloved hand,
but this time, walking across the room, I catch the scent
of something, missing in the air, the awful
burning smell of words about to be uttered,
the sentences we will hurl at each other like missiles,
the scorched and lifeless places they will leave.
You — you’re just sitting there, in your pretty dress.