shall I dive into your skin
with all my Dostoyevski
dangling from a thorn
in my argument?
shall i ghost where eyes
have no jurisdiction>
slumber in the alleys of
our wayward way.
beneath the effort of our stars
in the cumbersome
ritual of loving you
the very most?

or shall I descend into the majesty
of your updraft? catch the remarkable
clue to your aspect and journey there
like a happy fool on a day
without a name?