you are being.
pointillation
along this
broken
pale
blue dot

lit

with focus
and swarming intent,
strange, and
sometimes dark, yet

true enough:

your words do not simply word
but world
things

into existence;

your mere gaze,
ten thousand and ten gods clod in daisy chains,
whose glance together moves matter into wave,

history into potential origin
re-eden'd, new again;

your light,
never flawed or sinful,
always already
there and
so ******* perfect.

everything feels wrong,
but feels so right.

all the devils
are here
in drag.

worry not poet,
you are only light that matters.

so, play the role.
be somebody.
and make me swim
inside your pointillist earthing spoken,
cursor sojourning
across the blank page that awaits
the next line.

let me yoke to you.
twist mine into yours.
***** me in at the hips.
lift me into your if's
and have me, present.

our torquing bodies
charging each other,
holding back the

bloom of darkness.

yes, it is true:
we are
closest to the dark.

but we are also
sown to the broadest urge
that wrote us.

this ebb is lit with written poems,
receding into the lightness of dense being.

so,
jot me
into this

and i
will
exist in
your margins,

like nice little notes
that mean everything in the world.

i am the body depth-
come fathom me
and explore me
with your fluid hips-
like there is more than
blood between us-
but in the certain miles
i am drunk on you
and
i have almost forgotten
the way that you
sing me into
your perfect pitch...