Consensual

Chris, look.
We both want a picnic,
but first we have to get out of this field.

Why fight? We both know
you bit the wrong animal.
The venom's been circulated:
you are beloved.

A hollow's been thumbed.
When I speak your name
it brings a bird,
a thrum.

In truth, you are not present
except as my present gift to myself.
I think you, too, should take me
and look for yourself.