I think it'd be pretty
terrific
if the words which
have already passed
in-between us
thus far in our time here
on Earth would do
the trick. But
I'm afraid when it
comes to seeing
one another clearly,
it's like we're kept
separate by the thinnest
bolt of fabric.
And this endless,
flimsy, sort of
see-through stuff—
which spools out
between us
every time we talk—
is a color
we'll never be able
to name and
a shape whose
dimensions our minds
can't explain.
In fact, the best thing
I could do with this
problematic sentence
is: wrap it with love
in that strange
train of chiffon,
enact a silent,
large, swooping
gesture with my hands
to indicate a problem
"the size of our lives,"
blow you a kiss, hope
that you catch it, and
leave my account
at that.
