I, a ghost of myself (groans and all), and you, cumbersome

with so much opacity. Itching in the aisles of hangers.

Each point of contact enacting a five-star violence

they don’t know to call a violence; grinning and belted.

Glitching in the aisles,                    mate                    ah	ma’am.

I knew I was a worryman when I began using my form

as a floatation device,                    a skeleton key,                    a dustpan –

corrections in neat brushwork v, v, v, v, v	v, v, v, v, v

I knew you were really alive each time your body

ingested the words 	a lie, 	a lie, 	a lie, 	like

snips of red felt by the traitor                                        ah, 	tailor 

placing pins in the lack of it all. Grief is a puncture in the lobe

that never quite closes – a moaning o,	     o, 	     o,	     o, 	     o  

How desirous you are, at times,

to slip inside a different mass                    like a lapel pin,

if it could only hold you close                    ah	closed		ah	clothed.

All the while I am holding mybreathself open

where I have nothing for you. 	  Which is to say, so much longing

it haunts us both. Undress yourself and slip inside my body,

elusive as it is, anytime you want to.