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take a walk with my whimsy
Say Grace

 

 

The tissues crinkle before I touch them.

 

They spring and curl with the wretched sighs of a virgin

crying out for spit—

some taste of mouth to reconcile

the thrust of the new, the foreign

to a self-drafted intimacy.

 

It’s been so long since I last touched one.

 

Hovering my palm over the box

I feel the depths of its gallows

erupted open by the incessancy of being

and being again—

all things that make the pulse tremble

with shortfall.

 

When I lift one free

it looks up at me

pained,

a white sheet of horror—

 

and I quietly roll it into my pocket

and walk away.