Who Is This Pedestrian

Because she hates to see questions
in writing, I invert
my queries into rhetorical

curves. Because she was told
never to use because, I defy
some Ohio law. Because

he refuses to believe
in prepositions piling up
on over themselves, I watch

language wreck itself
from the passenger window.
And I refuse to be so definite

as to be the driver. I act on a passive
tendency to walk on—don’t I?

mis-taken

She mourns the hyphens
that have rubbed off, worn away, merged
into their attachments. Language

breathes and breaks
in two—always to be healed
later. Scars visible

but not mentioned. Syllabic
grafts in time, she gives herself
permission to talk

in her sleep—to herself,
to you. And you could reply
if you believe it’s right.