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