The socks came in a pack of five. What is the most boring subject possible? Translucent blue with punctures pierced to shape a star around the ankle. I carried them along the aisles as if I needed them. I fingered lacquered dishes and the rubber heads of mallets, crystal trinkets stitched to underwear. Wherever you go, this buffering. A dull hour. All that time I could have touched you and didn't or did absentminded, getting in or out of bed or trying to reach something behind you. I didn't need anything I could buy. I bought the socks and a slatted spoon I haven't used. Blue interrupted by the living points of constellated skin. I've been looking for a long time at the stretch of table where you had your hand. I am afraid to touch it. Love, all I've ever seen is things in airless dense configuration and no transparency. Copyright © 2017 Margaret Ross. Used with permission of the author. |
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