Nothing touches like tan velvet touches the palm. Now the cracks come, because what gives without taking?—Doesn't exist. Say you forget what is lanolin, what is raw about fleece uncarded & unwashed. Say the silver feel of charmeuse lines your sleep. You've lost what there was before pins & needles, sound a scissors makes through cloth on a hardwood floor, thick waist of the dressmaker's dummy. Don't tell me any more. Without Burano lace, without cinnabar strung on a cuff, shantung and satin and netting and swiss: no rich man, no camel, no needle's threatening eye.
From Music for Landing Planes By by Éireann Lorsung. Copyright © 2007 by Éireann Lorsung. Reprinted with the permission of Milkweed Editions.