poetry readings

She has this way of looking down. 
She's reading this thing to me now. 
Each word runs out in tripping rill 
from mouth-enchanted sound she fills
with meaning she's selected well. 
She's casually transfixed to tell
this thing she reads, she chose  
- she has 

this way
of looking up, just as.
Transitions creep and riff
like jazz, now final lines
are reached and caught. She
switches riffs mid-step 
unfraught, unposed, 
as if quite unadorned.
Unclothed and brought
from reading
to recite.

So warm and just like knew, each word
is born. From heart and borne
in mind, well-heard, yet carried 
also now in sight
by eyes 

from hers 
to mine,

inerrant 
and
interred.