I’m trying to confuse touch for something other than touch. I trace my make
believe chest. I photograph a piece of thread, then a piece of paper, then a wall
of pictures. The young men next door are whooping around a parking lot
bonfire. My shirt touches all the wrong places so I don’t have to. I imagine myself
in my apartment, but with real quiet. It’s complicated. I hear everything. The big bad bass.
The squeaking fan. The other fan whipping. The whooping young men. The thrown can popping.
I don’t keep count, but the boys punch each other’s arms in comradery, throw
each other up against cars, bowing before, like bucks. Bucking.
I unbuckle my belt, undress for the evening. Out of line with the window. My secure
shadow. Bigger than me. Harder lines in harder places. This is proof
of nothing. My body is not a body without
the dissonance of doubt. I’m listening. I’m listening.