of the this faded
and arcane little book
would deign
to speak out, I'm quite
sure they'd observe
that every time
you sniffed, I sneezed;
that just after
you itched,
I scratched; and that
as soon as you got the urge,
I danced.
Not in space, of course—
not with my limbs sculpting
glutenous time
into readymade
vessels for
operative gestures—but
all through the pages
of interior space
which contain the long story
of how we came to be
divorced.
