And at this point I have a plan, which is to read three poems.
One of which has a long title, "Whatever
We Were Going To Tell Each Other Won't Mean As Much."
You were brushing your hair.
Interminably, you brushed your soft hair.
How could you know what it was doing to me?
You knew.
You kept brushing your hair.
I watched.
I turned away, hearing the sound of your hairbrush soften,
as your hair found its place.
Very like the sound of a rough hand on a dress.
How could you know I went on listening?
You knew.
Even when you were finished, you kept on brushing.
Even when it was over, you kept on brushing.
You knew.