Intercourse—a word like this
fits nicer,
permits a more comfortable, every-day
sort of constriction.
The veneration
of all of those books on the shelves,
the projection of another you
who reads them;
then,
the playing chess against yourself,
and the folding more clothes
than the both of you own—
gradually,
something is being torn down;
a license is revoked,
a structure
is demolished.
And yet, slowly
One heals—re-learns
after the explosion,
somehow, to once again
throw—only, this time
a little less
than one's hand is holding.