By Éireann Lorsung
Nothing touches like tan velvet touches
the palm. Now the cracks come, because what gives
without taking?—Doesn’t exist. Say
you forget what is lanolin, what is raw about fleece
uncarded & unwashed. Say the silver feel
of charmeuse lines your sleep. You’ve lost
what there was before pins & needles, sound
a scissors makes through cloth on a hardwood floor,
thick waist of the dressmaker’s dummy. Don’t tell me
any more. Without Burano lace, without cinnabar
strung on a cuff, shantung and satin and netting and swiss:
no rich man, no camel, no needle’s threatening eye.
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