Body to body, tell me what is felt―
this self’s surface, or another’s. Where
does body end? How faceted the
between-space where contact tells us
more than we can compute, then less?
In arrangement ―back to front,
back to back, hastily stacked―
the brain hates ambiguity
and the eye is resolute. Above all
it makes sense of what it sees; limbs
and teeth cannot confound it. Under
bootshine, though, how does mind
hold slippery bodies, how map
what’s outside known boundaries?
The brain cannot make it cohere.
It’s true, Dear, in this setting
body shines no longer ―the blurred edge
of proprioception. The key of “d” so
close to where you “r” makes you,
dear, nearly dead. Not knowing what
we feel makes a handsome tactile
illusion. And if we did so, gnosia?
Would we still find something to grope for?
Old salt sailor, bad
brother, a pinch, small ache
chamming salt horse.
mach waves wash over
[a new dark]
[more than at first understood]
[looked into the spark’s mouth]
[could not find]
expected the same
[gathered its tools]
[shock and shame]
[braced for a full stop]
she was kind
[a place for put-up music]
[language no one spoke]
[opened its wounds]
[not new, but myrtle]
[open your lips]
[let fly your white stars]
You come with all your
offerings, your core burn,
on your face: