TLR Web
It is smaller when I use my hands as a harness, because they were painted that way by a woman once and it was love and so still they are painted that way. In the rarefied fear of the subway my arms and shoulders jackal into their size. After a car arrives there is a settling before the doors open like hands and this no longer makes me feel ashamed. I do not dream of crashes now. I dream we fight and I mean we fight. I hurt my hand and you say I hope it never stops hurting, and thankfully it won't. My look is a modest man's walking his dog, if I manage not to make faces as the cars tear between apartments stacked as though no one of serious intelligence swims about inside, mouthing a sound something like the circumference of a prison yard. I don't smoke but here I'm puffing as if contractually-- because I need something to start a fire with, because behind me the ads blister into being and converse from one park to the next. What I really want is anger, to pull a muscle and be done with it, a lament for peripheral vision. Instead her brush takes years away, and refuses to offer them back as grace.
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