'How are you?'

That's all I said,

it seems to have caused some confusion,

as if I uttered an illicit line,

a portion of profoundly impenetrable prose,

a paradoxical poo in your sparkly pure thought stream.

Now you, you're back in your corner,

by the frosted window

and the warmest radiator.

These words with which I inadvertently raped you

are filtering through your fingers -

my poo on your paper.