The gap between us is bridged by telephone wires,
Crossing, spider-webbed and dappled with bird ****, tangled
Into some immutable mess, surpassed only in
Confusion and chaos by the union of us.

I guess everything is dual,

Isn’t it,

All of life sick and twisted chocolate-and-vanilla soft serve swirls spiraling
Up, up, up until we hit heaven. And
If we stand on tippy-toes, arms shaking—straining—
Fingers popping with the strength of our Prometheus ambition
And we just push our struggling shoulders a little bit higher—

Maybe our wings
Will slowly rustle out.
But our pointed horns will still shift the part of our hair.