-After Ann Iverson’s “I Feel Their Hands Upon Me”
 
and now they are the empty
space between each letter.
I’d gotten used to honing
their unhonable traces.
 
Past the letter, they are past.
I passed through them, too,
in the spaces
where the past passed through fractal,
where they now live in the pixels
that precede all letters, blinking. 
 
When I type, they hesitate
to let each letter out–I hope
 
each poem calls them here
as they were: perfectly imperfect
and full of i-am-not-to-be-hemmed-in.