Luisa Giugliano, p.7


She moved on, you and I stayed in Prairie wagon.

Up her skirt, under her legs, we whispered the words “preserve your pleasure”,
     she twitched.

Still holding a sad jar—above the landscapes and landscapers, she hovers still.

A worldview.

A larval thing.

A bucket of hair and borrowed things.

          House boats and campers were our solution.
          Up and down the channels, never learning to sail.
          Vehicles resist the modes of causation, their passengers whistle.

To have a vehicle which is a home is now a common idea,

as in Berber or Bedouin.

Yet automobiles and time do not converge but once and you cannot step into
     the same river twice.

These little canoes on the waters with six small people inside saying,
     “Pleasure’s a sin, pleasure’s a sin.”

But you have my hair in two braids by now and you’re pulling the strands
     loose, “a pity this isn’t a sin”—
                      a pity this isn’t a sin.

If you find the hair of a stranger in an envelope or in an unusual form:
Is it unclean to wrap the hair around your finger?

How do you get close enough if you do not wait on lines or travel with

To touch a stranger’s hair is not difficult on a train or in a classroom.

How do you obtain the hair of some person?

Maria : Jocelyn

How do you select a name at random?
How do you stalk this woman down?
How do you take a part of her body without her knowing who you are
     and without violence?

Pass through. Go ahead.

Give her your child.