You have hands. They’re natural. They gather, feed. But your friends have hands, too, and sometimes they’re led to your wife’s pantyhose, which they find and for hours they stroke. Imagine her legs—flexed, jumpy. Responsive to pressure. Inviting it, inviting pressure, I almost said. But we can’t know the domain of legs just as we can’t know the domain of dreamworlds, and so we must forgive flesh that never touches flesh, though my friends have wives and I, I have gloves
Dear Samuel Johnson
So you’re dead. As of 1784, in fact. I googled you—that’s a thing we do on our laptops. Our laptops are like half-open dictionaries stuck in zero gravity which is why we type “laptop” instead: to be unencumbered is still what we grope for, as it was for you. You chose structure; we choose less of it. It may be that simple but truly you’re unhip
with relativists, could be codifying implies the book shutting according to a blogger with whom I agree. I’m not saying you’re bad (unwritten rules dictate that word not appear in print), maybe elitist, arrogant, and a touch repressive, and not you but the book-- like language, terrifying on its raring hooves.
-- Eric Higgins has poems appearing in or forthcoming from Barrow Street, Prairie Schooner, Guernica, Mid-American Review, New Ohio Review, and elsewhere. A recent Tennessee Williams Scholar at the Sewanee Writers’ Conference and the recipient of a Vermont Studio Center fellowship, he holds a PhD in Literature and Creative Writing from the University of Houston, where he was awarded the Inprint Verlaine Prize in Poetry