Set

There, in the frustration, was something
that shone out of her that I could do nothing
more than want

Placated by the low, oversized,
shoddily fitted crude wood table
that meandered about knee height
when sitting cross-legged on the ground.

Balancing back on the sofa,
the brown scorched pattern of a generation before
which we feel we know, retro,
overshadowed by a simple pink blanket fling

She with her red hair and her green eyes
and all her anger all her passion all her essence
being concentrated into an expression

She talked to me about the wants about her needs
about her distrusts and I listened without a rest
and my back to the TV

In her inhalation there was too much effort
dragging the smoke from the joint
and her fingers tore the excess paper,
which had not burnt.

From here there was a greater state
of escapement and in turn calm,
she feed back into her thoughts,
one limb stretched to balance on the arm.

Transference was simple
but it was the release of the energy
that did not lead me to her,
I did not understand,
which I just looked from.