I am walking, talking, living inside a glass box.
You may reach through and touch me,
but you wear glass gloves and are isolated
in your touching just as I am in my feeling
your touch.
And you may look at me, but mind you, through
two panes of glass not to mention the space in between,
and what you see is not really me.
And together we may talk, but you must know
that what you say is bent and twisted like
light through water, and I hear not what you say,
rather I hear the deformed ideas that have been
violently transformed by the
thick glass around me.
And we may make love over and over again,
but we can never rid ourselves of that high-pitched
squeak of glass rubbing against glass.