overfull

On the point of my turn where the last finger of Hellen's hand slips
from the recessed corner of my eye and before me sits the sturdy
Stephen and slim Samantha stirs against him and am I ever going to be
free of you all? is it a rhythm of face and hands and every clutter another
bump and there are all conjoined and too many conjunctions clumping
my view with bodies and brought on by overcomfort and unlonely and
there again I have said too many things together but am I am or we and
where we are is whisped and warbled as if by bird tongues early morning
or with sunset blush and do not remind me of night where y/our bodies
press and push and every day I am less myself and more ourselves slipping
cell by cell into union and perversely I think harder on my single and self
filled with other hands and hearts and thoughts muddled and lapping the shores
of eachother like sand slipped out to sea one night and gone forever to the
fullness of the bottom, tied grain by grain to its old place and
tracked in currents