*I want I want I want*: that's the bare
shivering inside her rhetoric. I want
to touch her, through the glass of air.
Red nails red lips red hair. Her metawear:
cherry construction-paper heart that beats
*sweet ripe sweet ripe*, and then the bare
stone of self-advertisement. Sister,
I know your sign, the wound...
To touch her through the glass of air
would be transgression, though I love her
in her loneliness, prism'd in analysis
(*therefore therefore therefore*, as if the bare
facts could be talked into something more
special), untranslatable as this: She wants
someone to touch her.
Through the glass of air
she sees the world flown clear
of her reflection, though her mind beats out: *it hurts
it hurts*. Sweet heart, I know. To bear
touching her, through the glass of air.
-published in The Atlantic
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