You touch me

to and fro to musculature. To nerves and hair, what have you new. How I look to you, in the iron eye. The beginning of a thing is my eye signing, is like turning over the surface of words. Flat yes flat. But to look at you is just. I pull the wooly tresses to me, to naught, to farther stretches of sand on the sand. My fingers upon a cross bar, a metal detector, a brazen peice of opaque glass, with which I configure that happening, that has ever, will.