Old Glory Burka

Not hands but dowsing wands, these things that seek the keys.
A blind elbow apush from behind the inside of the breast.
A cul de sac, made of grammar, tied at the top with a found halfmeter of gutter-dirty sisal. A dime size of sky still shows.
How you tried to tell me, difference in heart rates is the same as the orbits of Neptune and Earth.
That I could plant sixteen ears, and never see one bear teeth, while you could swim to the brown clouds of the delta and come back in a white Rolls and a fedora of fur.
And that in the space that distinguishes our hearts very separate beatings, if only because we remember what used to never be, a small aeroplane (an inhaled schwa) flicks across both our screens, at exactly the same breath.

For the arm to pull on the air itself like pulling on a latex glove
And this arm itself to reach through the mind itself and itself speak its words
As if nowhere else could be found a speech that is not cashed electric in debt
To shades of necessity, the fear of calamity, the violence of a lost address
To have the hands of the air grab my skull and part and close the jaws
Saying the air
What is after and before
The saying