Sunday, 11 May 2008

Sticking to Fingers

you cannot read, like forbidding
grass, steps over a lawn.

So is the touch
emphatically not erotic,
like glueing one’s eyes to the sea.

Unforgettable, friendly
pat on a knee, things you cannot
see, or read without embarrassment:

Lack without precedent,
Not the longing

for a ripe and life-long
waist embrace, unreadable anyway,
like the sustenance of fiords.

Only the thing, the just
do it: The thing I want
without being ironic.

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