Letter 6

This has become of and not of; or we can only know
another’s pain from their verbal or physical action; or
you have to open your eyes before you can close them.

I believe in the new measurements:
a tablespoon of hair, an inch of blood.

You’ll want to write this down.

Kissing him was not intuitive.
Slicing open a fish was not intuitive.
To kiss him while he sliced
open a fish was intuitive.

I read somewhere that pilots see better, in part, because they are asked to.

Later, I’ll remember it as: A girl pretends she is lost so strangers
will go door to door with her,
seeking her apartment. My mother pretends not to know me.

My eyes half envision you, but
the way you appeared to me, roughly, is not sacred.
Pretend you weren’t asked here at all.