waxwing

I see her shape,
inside her mind. 
From outside, too: 
the two align in every 
moment guard is down, 
so naturally rapport 
is found. Undone 
in frown, with every
flick distrust snakes in 
by fault and crack 
of whip. The two 
diverge again. In 
painful stretch
the distance
bends.

But who am I
to say or see? How
she sees this, or self
or me. It does seem 

plain.
She's beautiful, 
and knows it, too, 
when we wax full.