Focal Point 3.

As innocent as one can be, pausing her buttering Pancakes in a velour-papered restaurant, She reaches over me, the dark, lean Forearm curling over mine, Reaching for the syrups her table lacks. The honey, the sickly boysenberry, glaire With their own bloodcolored fluids Leave me. She slickly excuses herself; & does not notice Me: as though we had loved one another, but Had slid , And look only through each other's glass bodies And were falling, As they say, falling out.