We chase each other through the glasshouses, finally,
After all these weeks of paper
Keeping us in some kind of touch. Lingering.
Humid and proximal enough—
Each room hotter than the last, almost
Shedding all of my clothes.
Slowly, ‘til closing time,
Walking with my hands knitting
Themselves from you, and the colours hoping,
Upturning my eyes, the ferns parting,
And you breathing through your spectacles.
And—you. Breathing through your spectacles,
Upturning my eyes, the ferns parting
Themselves from you and the colours. Hoping,
Walking with my hands knitting
Slowly. ‘Til closing time
Shedding all of my clothes—
Each room hotter than the last, almost
Humid and proximal enough,
Keeping us in. Some kind of touch, lingering
After all these weeks of paper.
We chase each other through the glasshouses. Finally.
Libby Harris reads English at the University of Cambridge. She writes non-fictional prose and poetry and edits Downing College's literary magazine, The Leaves. Mary Jean Chan, Teju Cole, and Ada Limón are major influences.