Chop up text from dirty French novels,
throw in some candy hearts, make it a production,
all for what reason? That this was all building
to some astonishing climax, as our bodies
reached through envelopes to grasp with greedy
hands desired limbs? I wasn’t sick of it then, because
it is interesting to dance with raw desire— to imagine
the eyes, the breasts, the sex, how they all might look
in motion, in rapture, in the only text that really matters,
from the safety & security of line by line, phrase by
phrase, apostrophe by apostrophe. The letters remain,
tied up in a pink ribbon, in files closeted, now just
memories of limbs once animated by real heat,
forcing language to go where it falters, where hands give way.
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