The opposite of striking him.
It is gawky to say.
Speech， a loose tooth.
That I'm in love I can't.
Wasps and wisps of words. My minutiae sentiments
could make your mind pruney. What if I fixate
on a M.O.M.A. Pollock， Echo， till drip lines
are dozens of shoelaces， tipped with lacquer and raging.
Daily strands： Me， too， I… or That reminds me of…
Angling. Gawky， really gawky with this is where I went and what I did.
When I am the conversationalist
the less patient fi xate on a point
by my voile head. Mental pushpins scrape me：
the bored post notes.
Wholly detached listeners cast documents
right over my face， cutting and pasting text.
I myself concentrate on a speaker's lock of hair
just so I'm not waiting to chime.
As I was saying. When he held me， I was not a boring person.
Embarrassing， the need to peep， this saturation.
Forgive me. One I adore absorbs
my excess speech （her eyeglasses solar panels）。
Another I adore fields my prattle
despite her burning focaccia. All my talking
and I forget to charge the cordless. One who is
my poet-cousin-whom I also adore， and
shortly I would like to say more about her-
fi nds humor in that juiceless telephone.
Through my answering machine， gleeful-sweet：
I feel helpless because I can't hear you！ Now I add
there is a gallantry to her poems.
I can't not say： the particulars of his handholding