The Velvet Book
Velvet was someone saying yes,
the room beyond this door, the space
between your ribs, where
between rib and rib darkness holds itself
compact as a line pressed from
the white. Velvet was the heaving, always
closing what could not stay open:
we were supposed to die out. / You had your face
pressed up against the coarse dyed velvet /
Of the curtain, always looking out for your own
transmigration: / What colors you would
wear, what cut of jewel posed the one whose lines
my hands horizoned.
So many kinds of pages.
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