you sing on and on (and on) in the foreground as
the meter aches and constricts; with its power, beauty, antipathy
searing distances between us, hearing the becomings of null somethings
we reunite with the blankness
of pristine white passages
to break free from inertia
I cannot describe my infatuation with a split second
the embrace, the longing of wordless writers
and their unacknowledged cruelties
grieving over all this birthing
objecting to their own last words
the fresh blood of teething &
the prodding of our sores