The message I found on the Post-it note
went thus: love truth; expect to be found out.
Kid-style capitals proved I wrote it, but
left no clue why I'd swelled into a fat

clause no editor could edit; then, an entry
on a shrink's list of patient slang for sex—
her desk Norwegian teak, the mug of tea
on which she had affixed her Post-it notes

hot against her knuckle, their lips of stickum
loosening . . . And yet, I knew the note
to peel away at hour's end would terminate
our sessions—cool as the draft her linen

skirt was lifting to: Love, just stay benighted,
given everything I know you've got to hide.