man (living is less than fabric) david welper There's a thing called softness and it lasts the rest of your life. She has it – her radical lips spilling over like pansies on ledges. When she kisses, pale window panes can't keep my heart still – feeling all that is given one piece at a time. I sew these pieces together, quilt them in front of mirrors (she's pansy kissing my buckets). In front of mirrors to study the affect of her gifts upon my face: expressions. Her gifts, softer than air, and petals threaded together. "Give. Give to me," I say, looking back. And she's there, behind me, studying in-coming clouds – curtains to lend privacy. Give. Give. "Living is less than fabric," she says, "a little more than ledges put together two by two." Brushed, soft lips spilling over me. Softness is the skill of making others feel all that comes and goes piece by piece, all that weaves in and out of the eye. Forever.