(brush)

(THE EROTIC PROPERTIES OF WORK – do a series on that)

I held a paint
brush today,
making
a paintless swipe
with it
as I wrote my name
in water.
I did not
like the feel of it,
perhaps because
I mis-used it.
Demanding words
when it only knows
form or line
or shape. I am
not sure what
the paint brush knows.
It roused my
loyalty to the
pen.
Something I almost
cannot remember
ever not feeling
in my hand.

The brush extends
so much farther
past the body,
calling more
attention to itself
as a tool.
Like hitting a ball
with a bat,
I thought
instead of with
your hand.
The pen nestles
closely,
a sweet
embrace, nearly
embryonic –
or coital.
So hand & pen
have little sense
where one ends
& the other begins.
And what are
either of them
without the other.
Oh hand I know has a rich full
life all its own,
while pen has
to sit & wait,
containing.
Containing.
Containing
its words
like a woman
without a lover.
But I cannot
imagine a greater
gift to the fingers
than ink flowing
across the page,
skin to skin,
paper & pen.

11/14/99