| Lung Itch I find a train�s side and spray paint my eyelashes and spine message to you, to spot from your tower with delicate opera glasses. You will wet your lips with your tiny pink tongue. The next morning, I wake forgetting a question. Sinking triggers division. One long muscle runs from the right hand to the left foot, crossing another (running from the right foot to the left hand) at the hips. A path of orange light draws across the polished hammered-steel surface of the ocean to anyone watching. The grooves of a seashell interlock with my thumbprint. And now I am a number in an accountant�s pad. The slithering coastline hisses. |