Meanwhile, With Every Thrust by Brooklyn Copeland fr. Borrowed House I call you the voice of a younger man. Still, your years' distance is apparent. You treat me the way you want to be treated, and other pearls of quaintness. You say sometimes it feels like we've had sex when we haven't. I tell you something's amiss; we are spliced from breakfast to midnight snack. Meanwhile, with every thrust, the shingles. Like Buckminster Fuller, you seem to be a verb. You don't frown but look longingly at falling to its knees for me. Your voice is so soft, but it never begs, never instructs. There is urgency only. You merely dim yourself, like you dim the lights, like you blow over a cup of tea. I know I already told you, but this is the first time I've really told you. This abandoned house, like a cold hotel room, turns me on. back