What I want is for you to read my lips, my eyes.
Curve of spine, spot on the small of the back

that has ached for days. Arch of instep, flex
of the foot; toes that lead the way, that always

lead the way as though they knew where on this earth
they were going. Hither, say the fingers curling

into the shapes of smoke. Hither,
I repeat. Hither, hither.


In response to small stone (179).

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