Is it raining, or is that my hand falling asleep, pricking its own fingers;
not unlike the feeling of walking down a broken escalator, other people

gliding by in the opposite direction—the illusion of movement
under my feet, the touch of vertigo. I want to call and tell you I’m

touched, in the medieval sense of the word: sick, mad, stirred.
My gut won’t settle. I’m all shook up. That’s just the sort of person I am;

I hate summer. The other night when I cried
while you went down on me, I was really laughing

under that pillow. I was tired of being touched.