I know nothing in deed and all in thought
says Descartes, without a tongue of sense
or a cheek of meaning.
No aspirated syllables or hands with fingers
to write or spell insanity in
Latin words–curses–faceless and disembodied
like smoke to meet the sky.
I’ll not believe your matterless musing
until I put my hands through your side
and see your body part to my fingers.
I’ll not believe until I know you’ve rid yourself
of skin and bones forever.
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