Hello to the little feeling, 

lingering despite the concentrated focus

against it. My heart

is a muscle of some sort, located in my chest.

I’m not vague in an attempt to be artful, there’s no face

to explain the cause. My stomach is an acid 

filled sac in my abdomen. Yet you have to admit

its rather ironic Frank O’Hara fell at the hands 

of a dune buggy. I’m not quite sure the difference

between my limbic system and my neocortex.

There are globs of warm glue leaving

strings on the velvet, my thumb hangs

a bit too far. The hot gun should just brush

my skin but the pain is so distracting I can’t

remember to pull away. I bet the leaves falling 

around his mound whisper to him in exclamation 

points. My fingerprint is red and impossible to make out.