Christopher Stackhouse
long fingers…

Copy that. Keep a gorgeous heart. Then gone into a room with you
starring the “scars chosen.” Curtains flapping. “Minimum then.”
After which, realized people are selfless, then too, as much in -
To write poetry all day, shiver in a drafty house, held in position –
or shower beneath warm black hair, sounds heard time and again.
Our blood, reader, is ample.           Our long fingers held in place.
Tungsten. Rapt. We should talk in person. That in itself is meaning.
Fitting against skin. Classic. Lovely. Sad. Absence is air.