“A really well made buttonhole is the only link between art and nature” –Oscar Wilde

I wake up and touch my nightshirt’s buttonholes. I start from the bottom and work my way up. Unbutton the button, poke through the hole. Button the button until I’m appeased. Nine buttonholes. Exactly like that. I only buy nightshirts with nine buttonholes. Each morning, there’s nine, clasped and unclasped. Before eating or drinking—I have to make sure. Pissing, after pissing, I do the nines. At tea, operas, even while shopping. Nines! More nines! I must have my nines. I make love squeezing my fingers inside them. Weeping, I reach for them, good buttonholes. I did it before I walked in the door. I never count buttons. Only the holes.