She told me, “You must learn
to wear a mask in your eyes.” ¹

There are conversations we do not have
or do we and I’ve gone deaf?

Here, between us, intuition
is a misnamed thing.
It is a bell ringing in another room
insistent
but of imprecise intent.

We turn
words over
speak as though we know,
by magic,
what the other
desires.

When,
for me at least,
I am blind
to the hopes of minds
beamed without
explanation.

Whistle,
that I might guess
what I cannot see.
Hum,
that I may know
when it is time
to be happy.