It all began with an onion skin
rolled in the palms after removal —
microscopic veil, shredded to sheer
vulnerability with a touch.

Rolled in the palms after removal,
the laundry sheds dead skin, dust to dust,
vulnerability with a touch
of misplaced affection. For what holds

the laundry’s shedding skin, dust to dust,
dissolving? My hands flip back and forth
with misplaced affection for what holds
fast inside them, admitting only

dissolving. The hands flip back and forth,
fingers work, creating compartments
fast inside them, admitting only
what moves through by force and persuasion;

fingers work, creating compartments,
viral spaces exploding with guile
what moves through by force and persuasion
can’t be named, only felt — a motion

(that viral space exploding with guile),
a microscope zeros in on what
can’t be named, only felt — a motion
like a benign tremor or stutter;

a microscope zeros in on that
stumbling heated communication.
Like a benign tremor or stutter
from movement into meaning teased out,

calipers stretch molecular strings —
microscopic veil, shredded to sheer
infinity. Between, space equals
space, that began with an onion skin.

* * *

Patricia F. Anderson and I wrote this piece together. You can see it in progress over at this post. — Dana