My disposition has become dimpled
listening to you tell me, quietly,
how suspicious I might seem, how simple
an accusation, to dream secretly,
of glances borrowed from gleeful pupils
and wayward chances with pleasing scruples.
"This is jealously. Pride wounded by doubt,
hounded by envy until then buried
under layers lost to a rational drought
as though drowned of sense—"
Since we got married!
"—baptized in fever'd dreams and fantasy
broken with wonder from distant ecstasy."
My lips scoff at this, this petty judgement,
a parlour game gone sour like candy
sincerely absent any alignment
'tween I and your modus operandi.
"I know, with my heart, how true my soul grows,
how fruitful in time, blooming so as a rose."
What? What could one say? To flowering fruit?
And the truth, at that? There is nothing there,
no field or pasture, no ground to pollute;
shifting lands produce barely any air
for a fertile mind undone by pretense
above this prima facie evidence.