In this room right now
there are seventeen of us
last time I counted.
Out wrists and marrow
sinew and gelatinous parts
of our retinas,
splayed across the linoleum.
Getting from West 3rd
to Central Park
in vapid wind, when your
cheeks chap rosy.
That’s what counting us
feels like.
Your fingertips are sticky
with Clementine
smudging the sides
of the glass Coke bottle.
Your mouth is addicted to curves
and the metallic
taste of ratifying yourself
over and over.
It bounces
from your lips off my brow-bone
and your right kneecap.
It’s resonates from all the
surfaces on which it lands.
The vowels.
They make my toes vibrate
and the hairs
on the backs of my knees salute you.
Textbook division
and raising
to the ninth you.
In this room there are
approximately seventeen of you
and me.
No telling which mouth
you’re talking from.
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