Declutched

Against my will, I fall
upon the archive, creating
a tension tight as rival verbs.
Although painful, this has the advantage
of not being dull.  Today I feel
all words as my space, but lines
are prodding beyond my space,
and what they touch is nervous.

The surface of the one I love
 forgets its feeling—whereas tickling
 used to define our bodies’ borders,
 now our flesh is merely an echo
 of its parts.  I have done

an excellent job of carrying out
your experiments—like the time
I found your heart by clicking
on the main icon.  It was at home.
Your heart, that is.

But, against my will, I dream
of illness through which we both will suffer
from very large nerves.