Naked to the touch,
I shiver to a cymbal crescendo.
There is an eye at the thick of a needle
to slip into, and then through.
Nothing fits but the bloodiest muscle of self,
that slick, compact drop
which cannot sacrifice one glint.
It curls to your touch,
it glints like that thrashed cymbal.
We two are made of that, are squeezed as that.
Too self to bring apologies, anything
but the memory of a needle we came through
to touch.
may 8, 08
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