It came in the mail today. Well, yesterday, I suppose, but I picked it up today. It was drizzling a bit, but no drop penetrated the tight, classy packaging.
It looks good in person. It feels good, too. The text and the graphic are slightly raised; handling this book is texturally pleasant.
I’m the second piece in, after Jessica, before Greg. I like it. I’m comfortable with my line breaks now, and with my surroundings. I feel cared for, and in good company. I feel kind of important, even. Well, not important, exactly. I guess just comfortable.
There is an ISBN.
This is something to have, I think.
Where Is Cyrano?
Your eyes are like honey in a cup.
Your cheekbones are
the shoulder blades of an anorexic,
they are like
the wings of sharp birds.
The time I spend explaining things
to you is like
traveling faster than
the speed of light and coming back
50 years younger, before
I was even born.
Explain that one to me.
Fucking you is like
pressing my thumbnail
through the skin of a bruised apple
which is weird
because I hardly ever talk like that.
This is not my mouth.