All I'm Saying Is
Alice Bolin

I'd like to get under your shirt and feel around.

Afternoon tenderness: in the library, botanical specimens abrade the almanac and again this finery, bright Adam’s apple, damasks weft with Arabian birds. We consider lapses: silence of a tooth-sick day, the act of cushion sinking.  If I speak again
it will be on lips I owe.
Amount the edges: quickly, quickly.