the way I do my hands—
in fists in gloves in pockets—
but it keeps going, like the month,
a little longer than it should.
I’m standing in the grimy heart
of Kenmore Square,
my fingers squirming in their separate rooms.
Above its darkened glass,
the porn store announces itself:
AMAZING AMAZING AMAZING.
Its promise of aggressive warmth
is not unattractive at the moment,
the surfeit of all my own words
hanging over me. For once,
I’d like to live within the shut-mouth,
unequivocal boundaries of the flesh.