she's become
the mati hari,
lying low
in the shadows
sending you
cryptic notes
via untraceable
accounts.
she's writing
in invisible ink,
calling from
burners,
pay phones.
she has a can
and a string
strung over
your back fence
whispering sweet
nothings into
an empty can
of sweet corn.
she's cloak and
dagger nails in her
trench coat, standing
in the rain,
waiting to make
her move
with nothing on.
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