J'ai besoin de 13 mains

I was a bird, I was a lover.
I am a fighter, a fighter jet ski.
No use trying,
No point denying
And the fork ran away with the spoon.
Je suis un coureur de bois, et je suis d'accord.

(It makes me sick. Physically ill. My heart rises up into my throat and I just don't think that's where it should be. I learned about that, last year in Bio 20. I liked Bio 20. Where did Bio 20 go? I misplaced it, in my mind, along with everything else that was there. I don't actually care about the class, you do know. That's not the point. Knot. Knot. Tie. Tie. Tiger suit. Say no more, say no more.)

And when there was thunder, she'd say, "It's just the angels moving their furniture." Her voice, bright as


as what? You're always supposed to know what comes next. That is the rule. Rules. Spools of thread. Basting thread. Throw it together, loose. Loose. Like camel pants. Like graduation robes.

The sad, sad truth. No. It's not sad. I can see cherry blossoms, greens, rain, best friends, singing, Sunday dinners, wild Pacific salmon, blacks, plain clothes, people. Living. Breathing. I can almost touch. But then, but then, and then, and then. Say no more, say no more. Just breathe. Just lay your head down, and breathe onto me, into me, through me, so close, 


close


real distance, as we measure it


twilight