Which way did you go home – down Lexington? Third Avenue? --
My eyelash on your sleeve. Was it the second floor? The third? --
My eyelash on your sleeve. You turned the key. How many turns? --
My eyelash on your sleeve. What number was upon your door? –
Four? Six? -- My eyelash on your sleeve. What did you listen to?
Beethoven? Or your blood that drummed inside of you without
The notes -- ahead of time, one week drummed in a minute? What
Routine? -- Untying shoes, socks off, and putting slippers on? --
My eyelash on your sleeve. The light turned on, how many watts
Were lit inside of you, illuminating how you touched
My barelegged wire to shudder from electroshock. -- The bit
Of me upon your sleeve. What did you eat and drink? Some juice?
Some tea? Was it a muffin, sandwich, salad, granite, fruit?
And did you fill this way the hole throughout your clothes, your mood,
Your flesh -- the growing hole burnt by my eyelash on your sleeve?