She won’t take no for an answer. Nor will she trust yes.
What will she take for an answer – an educated guess?
Not unless what feeds the blind surmise has some
relation to what human eyes have only seen peripherally
on the sly. She’ll listen to the lone reply which, passing,
nods to the overt but readily cavorts with the covert,
whose sense suggests a density, and never offers
recompense to any expectation; she’ll listen for a hint,
but mostly heed the wanton cry, the banshee wail whose
note is hard to tell from wind in sail; the herald who proclaims
an arbitrary list of names as if each had precisely equal
meaning, leaning toward whatever momentary spurt
of motion has occurred, is spurred on less by void than it
avoids a cancer. That’s what she’ll take for an answer.