to get our heads around resistance and loss
we pass our hands through gaps in fences.
my french may be rusty, but oxygen fills
our hearts with lungs and bugs have adapted
to computers now. But show me just one case
of lockjaw and I’ll cave in
like folding milk. We have outdated files
hidden in attachés that in time will
be released to the public. Our teeth 
clap shut from the force of repetition, a word
we say over and over until we know the 
spelling of it. The most redolent, of sense
and meaning must choose a direction and
take flight. But more, it must hear itself
reflected. Reaching through a frame to touch fingers,
fabric lit up imitates flame, just as margarine
once was pink. The smell settles in our memories
and pools. Gutted, we write our names
one beside the other so as to pick them out.