Perfect Intimations of Intelligible Forms

Jameson Fitzpatrick

With the force of a knee
brushing another beneath a table.
But not my knee, not my table.
In the only version of your going
I can bear to concede, we’re some place
that doesn’t exist, some room I can’t
tell you anything about except
a table and two knees beneath it
belonging to different bodies. Stop here,
before they reveal themselves any further:
beyond ourselves with affection, or
accidental, we could be anyone.