You are touching me,
the word is saying.
The eyeball bats its lashes.
Stop holding me, the hand is saying,
leaving only sweat smudges.
When you look at me, and I feel
I feel—
that particles of air are incinerating
the hair of my forearms,
and that tiles are made of electric sand.
If I could help it,
I would be the giant fern in it's fern pot beside
that mouse in the corner
(yellow walls and uneven, circular tables)
As I see it,
we are both only good for hands on a table,
so I watch the mouse instead.
The mouse thinks:
there are too many computers;
not enough crumbs
and I agree.
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