We traveled a blind world. Our fingers
Sticking underneath their armpits. An
Uncomfortable gesture for a stranger.
But we promised we’d return.
These glass houses, I’m beginning to believe,
Are made from stone. Your barrier, an ungreased
Pan. Masking burns beneath the skin.
Continually scratch the wool against your skin,
But the gloves are still not stitched.
We put a candle beneath our silences.
An escalading fire, torching the tablecloth
And our chances reduced to ashes. You’re a…
Forget this. Half our whispers
Inform us these shells will be broken soon.