Wednesday, January 29, 2014


I reach out at night and touch a blue velvet bag 
with my right hand. In order to do this, I must 
twist my body in bed but I want to. I am right 
handed, and I want to touch the blue velvet bag 
with my right hand. If I were only to touch it 
with my left hand, my weaker hand, I would cry 
more than I already do because I wouldn’t be able
to do as much now, even though it’s too late, really, 
to do anything at all. But if I can barely touch it 
with my weak hand, I will think about what 
I couldn’t do even with my strong hand, 
my heart, and my soul, for everything that 
I once knew, that now I can only touch lightly, 
impossibly, barely–inside my blue velvet bag.

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