The poem reads like a series of snapshots of a woman who catches the speaker's attention. Each line starts with a single word, such as "Enigma," "Sultry," "Curve," "Thaw," "Touch," and "Grab," and then fills in the picture with sound and image: the "click clock" of heels, longing stares, an hourglass figure, a dark silhouette, a caramel corset. She stays a mystery, and the speaker seems both drawn to her and unsure of her.
The feeling builds as the poem goes. The early lines are slow and admiring, but near the end the speaker's desire turns more anxious. "Oh no, pollute, Lily pure" suggests a clash between wanting to touch her and fearing that touching will spoil something pure. The last line, where "floaters" unhinge "like golden sand," suggests a loss of control, as if the speaker's mind is coming apart. The mood is sultry, tense, and dreamlike, with attraction and guilt tangled together. The title, "Call it what you want," leaves the reader to decide what to name that feeling.