that if you knew someone who could read minds, say someone named Sarah, and were good friends, then this is what it might feel like:
Women, I bet,
have the harsher roles, especially Sarah,
that’s why I bring it up. Think of what
she might get wind of when she listens to
your inner privacy instead of minding
her own business: like you’re sitting in
the privy when she visits, maybe. Whoa.
Sarah’s very compromising in
her presence, even if she’s wise about
the provocations of the body, and
prefers that you at least attempt to shield
your demon lust from public radiating
broadcast on the psychic waves. Damn.
When I am near, or if I ever slip
around her in my self-control, I feel
her sneak inside my recess, slide into
the flowering and blue abyss of secrets
to release my best celestial thoughts,
my peaceable securities, which
in general oppress her less than all
the squeaks and brags of my enchanting personality.
In the end, between us, we can keep
the noises out.
Of course, if in fact you don’t know anyone who can read your mind, then you’re probably safe from these, or similar indignities. Thank God, I suppose.