Note 17, 02:43pm
Like the hand of Rachmaninoff.
Frank O’Hara knew it too. It is said they were
big and imposing; he said of his hands, as you
said of yours, yours as if mine; mine at the
keys. Hang hovering, they tremble, at those
very same keys. For I live to please you at
another recital.
In errant desire, a song leaves its note. Father,
love is just a stray strand of hair wrapping your
index finger, but believe me it’s taut as a
noose.
Note 35, 12:09pm
Loving you: an encyclopaedia of bruises.
On the phone, I nibble a hangnail for lunch,
skin crawling like a mollusc desperate to save
itself from drowning. (All but quickly.) Your
compliments are ticklish, your supplication
lukewarm.
A boil roars for its tone-deaf kettle. To this my
reflection dances in the fork’s shredded smile.
