there is nothing
nothing really, but
the wolfish grin of desire
that will spin in your direction
of course that may be nothing
i fantasize about a pot of chamomile
and a camisole rolled up
in a ball on the floor like
a lint balloon on a sweater
that has deflated around the room
and landed on the right spot
at the right time
i believe both will be with you
i will remember to bring
my own wolfish grin