Into the middle of the mirror the middle of the butterfly the flutter of the mild tooth. Butterfly in the mirror and mirrored in it the flutter of mildness. A tooth of sadness. No sad in it. Not sad but mild in the middle of the tooth. Some sensitivity. But in the flutter of sensation of brushing. Brushing a butterfly off of a mirror. It is mirrored: a hand brushing a butterfly off a surface, a surface only touching never touching: it is too light. There is a lightness in touching a butterfly. There is a lightness in a butterfly touching a mirror. Less lightness in a hand but hands do not touch. Touch happens in the middle. There is no middle. A tooth is a severing. Not sad but mild in the middle. Touch is a flutter. Fluttering a sensation in a tooth. Tooth in a mouth tooth of a mouse and the word strange is banned. A mouse is sensitive. Between a mouse and a butterfly is a middle where they do not touch. Still, a mouse is sensitive to a fluttering. To a fluttering of a hand over a mirror, brushing a butterfly aside.

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A note on "Touch": Teeth fall out. Until then, they're held in by nerves and blood vessels and cement. I am nervous mass undulating and want touch more than anything until it's too much. I have an appetite for more than what I can fit into one life. This particular poem came out like a loose tooth, not quite like the others.