this is where
i feel inadequate
here just here

self indulgent
a violin bow
wrapped
in velvet
a china doll
layered
in plastic
editorial sanctions comma no black ink
clean copies
washed by the machine
artists oil colours
not less but more

i did not
dance sing shout drink mingle join
i do not
remember
the mouth
that touched
the hands
my aching breasts
lines of love
i do not know
where i draw
your shape
mine
quotations
that never cease
utterances they
become
i think
the dankness
of the room
does not
stop

the open door paralyses