Touched—but somehow only
gradually
by such
soft
and tender
strains of sadness lingering;
sticky sweet and
streaked
across a
dark and lovely
used-
up womb's walls—so empty,
and yet—
so full
at once!—graceful, thin
as your grandmother's ghost;
but
touchable—
and rich
as her taste
in heavy clothes
and dangling chocolaty
topaz stones—just to listen!
feels
so much
like falling
in love—though somewhat
alarming
because—you don't know
precisely
or really even
vaguely
with whom.
