conducted

March 16, 2007

Am I wet? No, it is the metal
of the zip. I try to reach you
but you are with the machines –

a delicate operation. The cord
catches my ankle; I’m used to it now:
I do not fall.

I imagine clean planes
foaming from dry ice, blue shapes
that compete with your irises for form.

You arrive; I force my neck straight:
I know you admire the craft. You pass me
your coat. The metal again.

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