this winter parabola 10

x.

a shift in the weft of you. sensed, net, unpinned--undone--your biochemistry
changes. i am trying to remember (unsatisfaction of progressives): wait-wait don't

give it away! more academic now than--anatomist's interest in--they say you
can't name your cadavers sometimes, it's just too intimate when they finally

peel away the plastic from the hands & then the face & all that torso you know
better than flesh, more than eating or sex--this, just this--how can it be any more

than the way you put your hands inside, love of precision transcending
even desire to cut with curves. we biomechanical in the cleanliness of our

lines, we half-steel in cornea, cones & rods & also the tips of our fingers, won't
or nothing to forgive, not even the high-contrast of our days past, bacterial.