assumes a figurative sense—
the feeling of fabric, let’s say,
on one’s naked body in a cold,
dark room (goosebumps and
moonlight) illicitly thought of
as ‘proper’ to be without another
body represented, so that the
Thought turns around an ample
amount of sufficient ideas,
which therefore suggests a disguise,
in pun, to the room in which
the fabric rests upon the body
of one whole living kinship;
pincushions of an active sense
of imagination; the brain, like
a bee’s entrance into a nest,
the blade of a tongue, a suddenness
of a decision as if pondering which
aromatic soap to “try” next.
Aromatic money-spending
spanking the globe. I once wore
clocks, or watches, until I realized
that I only need a watch
to watch me at night while I sleep,
ticking me into a dream, tics
in the fluttery chest,—the idea that
a watch is worn as if to suggest
that one has just come from the outside.
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