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Twenty Eight
_ claire becker

I’m out of touch.
I walk and touch
the soft shirts, felt hats.

You brush your hand
across my back
and leave a piece of it.

Contact
that makes nothing happen.
Black and orange for the game.

I want to be you
with a hand so natural.
Put my hand

provisionally on your back.
Just try, just put it
down, then we’ll fix it.

You get out to head
to the game. I look out
into a car.

Black swirl of hair.
I don’t know
eyes are there

but stare.
When I leave work,
I should go home,

take care. That’s where
people are.

*


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