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by Deborah Bernhardt
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 点击收听单词发音
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