Diary

    The opposite of striking him.

    It is gawky to say.

    Speech， a loose tooth.

    That I'm in love I can't.

    Wasps¹ and wisps of words. My minutiae² sentiments

    could make your mind pruney. What if I fixate

    on a M.O.M.A. Pollock， Echo， till drip lines

    are dozens of shoelaces， tipped with lacquer and raging.

    Daily strands³： Me， too， I… or That reminds me of…

    Angling. Gawky， really gawky with this is where I went and what I did.

    When I am the conversationalist

    the less patient fi xate on a point

    by my voile head. Mental pushpins scrape me：

    the bored post notes.

    Wholly detached listeners cast documents

    right over my face， cutting and pasting text.

    I myself concentrate on a speaker's lock of hair

    just so I'm not waiting to chime.

    As I was saying. When he held me， I was not a boring person.

    Embarrassing， the need to peep， this saturation⁴.

    Forgive me. One I adore absorbs

    my excess speech （her eyeglasses solar panels）。

    Another I adore fields my prattle⁵

    despite her burning focaccia. All my talking

    and I forget to charge the cordless. One who is

    my poet-cousin-whom I also adore， and

    shortly I would like to say more about her-

    fi nds humor in that juiceless telephone.

    Through my answering machine， gleeful-sweet：

    I feel helpless because I can't hear you！ Now I add

    there is a gallantry to her poems.

    I can't not say： the particulars of his handholding