I watch her
gaunt arm flapping as she comes
down the
spiral staircase to the basement
of the
library I’ve been sitting on
tenterhooks
in all day,
in all-day delirium, in danger of
writing
a thesis
about wrecking balls instead of Proust –
I like how
slack and wantonly it moves, the way
thoughts do
when you’re running – I like that I am
more
cognisant of her arm than she is as
it strums
the flower tracery on the side of her
muslin black
top, and her boot-heels clip-clop in couplets –
an arm, I
think, has never been more beautiful
than this
arm, more pacific and modest and good!
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