pt 8

How can I touch this to your face. It is a soft form. It is equal in weight and movement. All this comes with a soundtrack. I touch your face with a wrapped hand, the hand is wrapped in panic. The art of panic is in its sound, the sound of panic is a startled laugh. I am already walking down the street, and the trees are already dense with leaf. How can I touch my own face. How can I feel my face touched with the same care. I am talking to my hands. I am touching my panic with a branch, the branch is in full leaf, the branch is connected to a tree. The tree grows outside of a scary apartment building that is one story too tall. The talk that comes down from the windows filters through the tree, but the tree is not responsive. We arc our backs. I am talking to my hand, held in your hand, as if my hands were basically understood. Instead of panic, there is a form breathing softly from a swivel chair. Falling asleep there. There is a stripe of paint. I am empty and full.