The starboard hemisphere produces song
while reasoning originates in port.
A woman’s brain is blended, so a quart
of intuition mixes with a strong
infusion steeped in bags of right-and-wrong,
and brews a view more balanced than the sort
your sex selects. (See there? the men exhort
for sense and miss the horse that rode along.)

You stupid egghead, you’re in love with me:
addressing me inside your dextrous brain,
undressing me, because you almost died
and heard your body clamor to be free
to love and hug and fuck. You can’t explain.
Don’t even think. Attend the song inside.