i find it, like a book finds its reader.
like the reader finds an old friend between the pages.
and the friend, their love returned in full.
and love, its givingness become relay.
and searching, its pilgrimage.

i hold it, like roses hold on to the snow.
like the snow holds on to the cobblestones in the sky.
and the sky, its wandering light.
and light, its arrival in its absence.
and releasing, its weary seeker.

i flee from it, like time keeps fleeing from the clock.
like the clock flees from its last stop.
and the last, its living truth.
and life, its vast unnameable.
and questioning, its pallid resting place.

i forge it, like the moon forges the waves.
like the waves forge the cliff's labyrinth.
and the labyrinth, its single thread.
and the thread, its thousand fragmented words.
and dissembling, its puzzle pieces without end.

i ask it, like a sinner asks forgiveness from a God he believes dead.
like death asks of life nothing but patience.
and patience, its tender faith.
and faith, its open hand.
and answering, its fragile soliloquy.

i reveal it, like the holy spirit reveals itself to non-believers.
like belief reveals shelter from its own incompleteness.
and incompleteness, its secret freedom.
and the secret, its anonymous keeper.
and hiding, its unspeaking reply.

i seek it, like the waves seeking to return from the beach.
like the beach seeking footsteps unfading from the sand.
and footsteps, their fierce stampede.
and ferocity, its crystal shape.
and reaching, its impossible limit.

i find it, like a book finds its reader.
like the reader finds an old friend between the pages.
and a friend, their love returned in full.
and love, its givingness become relay.
and searching, its pilgrimage.

i hold it, like roses hold on to the snow.
like the snow holds on to the cobblestones in the sky.
and the sky, its wandering light.
and light, its arrival in its absence.
and releasing, its weary seeker.

i hold it, like roses hold on to the snow.
like the snow holds on to the cobblestones in the sky.
and sky, its wandering light.
and light, its arrival in its absence.
and releasing, its weary seeker.

often i ask of my cigarettes that
they last forever. they always answer
in ashes, smoke the moonlight slow dancer
arching out of its own transient act

as if parting came easy to creatures
that dream of eternity, and wake up
again craving its adumbration, butts
spilling out of the tray, pale these seekers

their beauty not betrayed by their briefness
but by the dream, for some things are only
enjoyed by virtue of their vanishing.

it will free if it makes time for stillness.
be patient with what is strange—there, the opening.
breathe, and know nothing but fascination.

if you look into the essence of things
for long enough, the truth will manifest
that despite what the universe is telling you,
you don't really need that Big Mac, at best

a deep desire's unsatisfaction
is its only real redeeming feature
for its completion is its death, and worse,
your loan will not cover your expenses.

but the sacred only enters when life
is lived beyond need, and all of future
is a faded dream, with life completely

emptied of engineering, and the eye
in excess consumes the sun to suture
itself to night, so to see things frivolously.

i was told the wind would tell me my name
that could not be spoken, so came the breeze
with secrets undeciphered through the trees
that one autumn of unheard of refrain.

but ever since that labyrinth opening
the walls have been moving and the winter
of eclipsed understanding will linger.
how briefly light comes, when you think of it—

what more could you need to transfigure a place?
the wind is coming from somewhere remarkably
far off to dance just a little with the curtain;

spring and it came all this way to caress a face.
we come from mystery and go back to mystery
and this alone we can say for certain.

sometimes i cast myself back to that night
when the thing i so easily named Self
was wrenched out through the wormhole of my third eye
and all time played out, and all of being’s wealth

became desert, then black, then red, then white
and all knowledge was dust; language, a dream.
and something i’d forgotten i was arrived
somewhere i’d forgotten i’d always been

and the presence in this place i was not
one with nor not one with; all of human
categories fallen out from themselves.

impossible moment, i understood my lot:
home of the soul, visitor from sand,
given a gift: gratitude, in bottomless well.

did you notice when the words shed their skin?
the hour was late in the idle day
and the light of significance grew dim.
at the shore, the waves compelled you to stay

and you saw, in the waves that slid away
all the ways in which you could not alter
the crash, and retreat, of waves come to claim
what was only ever borrowed from them.

be that ocean, it is asked of you, and
your wheel will keep bringing gifts to the sand.
sea and desert, two serpents coiled, two

vast multitudes, and between, some small truth
recurring. this world is a single breath
and uncounted smiles; no words for the rest.

somewhere in between the outer reaches
of meaningless ***, and the inner tomb
you land in after the last spinning room
of several tequila shots too many

you will discover, your vast finitude
is not everything it’s cracked up to be
and the siren songs of your hidden sea
signal the wreckage of solicitude

but everything that sinks reaches a place
where up is clearly distinguished from down;
though light receded, and breath forgotten,

something ever unaltered, if but trace,
opens the way to return to the sound
of graceful footsteps, on paths untrodden.

consider the inner stream
all that flows in you
all you hold true and hold yourself true to
desire, fear, and dream

the words and their copula
what you want to say
and what you will leave unsaid, to keep safe
hidden phenomena

the thoughts that ebb up against
all the things you saw
the grief, despondency, and joy they cause
and their consequence

the icons sunk and swimming
time, person, sense, home
nights alone, things for which you must atone
waters shimmering

those you loved and those you lost
those you won't let go
secrets you keep, emotions you won't show
gift, fishhook, cost

a thousand different currents
are pouring through you
memories, questions, laughter, light, heat, clues
your defeats and triumphs

a thousand confluences
baptised with your name
out from every corner of life they came
and found congruence

and you were once without form
but then you opened
to let in the dancing multitude whence
came your singular course

all flow with the inner stream
finds its source without
and all that flows would flow back out, no doubt
desire, fear, and dream

—

if ever you are lost
follow the stream
it begins with opening
and leads to the unknownness
that you didn't know you were looking for
all along

days of wanting
days of having
days of losing

days of wanting again
days of having but not the same
days of losing what never was

days of wanting what cannot be had
days of having what will always be lost
days of losing whatever remains

waiting praying begging

for the days
           to come a little less
                                    predictably


          ­                                                             sudd­enly—
                                                           ­               out of nowhere


days without want for anything i am not already
days unconcerned with having anything i am not already
days of laughter and dancing and friendship without end

and i
for all my foresight
never saw any of it coming

morning came
not only the night we left

behind us
our dreams and intimacies

each other
all for the slow forgetting

distant star
light cast off like a shed skin

morpheus
adds us to the collection

letting go
does not come so easily

for those who
against fate, held others close

i thought i saw you walking
between the morpheus trees

the leaves in autumn auburn
dancing in their descending

to lay themselves at your feet
as welcome, your charity

each soft step kissing the earth
i gave chase, for what it's worth

but i turned one way, and you
another, leaving no trace

and now this place keeps secrets
of stories that could have been

and now all but a few leaves
remain unfallen, and i

deep in the still and quiet
patient, await their return

i thought i saw you walking
between the morpheus trees

with a little luck, next time
it will be you seeing me

what happened
to the song in your heart?
is it lost to you?
it will never end, it
will play on new instruments.

the traces
held so closely
they break.

all that was said
and left
unsaid.

the touch
of the beloved
a fading memory.

your smile
like the sea greeting the pink dawn that day
vanished into starless night.

and i, in truth
though torn open and emptied
still draw from the well
of gratitude, that endless sky
that you left in me.

a parting gift.

fragments of light.

tender mystery.

drowning anguish in
tantric abandon.
a smile like the sea at dawn.
the body glows
in solar eroticism.

petrify your fallen leaves
what i said and left unsaid
all at last you kept, not without the rest
seasons change songs that never end

speak with secrecy my myth
what remains that chance can offer
who lost and left closed the door to themselves
i'm caught in creases of your palm

too much for me to untangle
wasn't sure what being heard was
we catalysed the grace of this strange place
i can see the shore fading glad

the pink dawn greeting the sea
cumulus range billowing
a softness to all that was and would be
this was the light of your smile

i'm flying towards your sky now
and i keep with me his defeats
and i pretend to soar to forget the fall
but i know i'll keep on the way

to walk beside your welcome
i'm a refrain in your song
i'll set among suns, your treasures joyful
unbroken and beseeching

remember to be kind
to yourself.
it is easy to forget.

i know nothing of love
that is not an extension
of the sun.

i know nothing
but fascination.
unknownness for the fabricating.

our song will never end.
it will only be taken up
by other instruments.

all that is lost
returns
in altered form.

the place you are looking for
is on the move
looking for you.

what chance
to have laughed
and danced

and to go on.

terrified again
of speaking
of speaking but the words not coming
of speaking and the words coming but not reaching
of speaking and the words coming reaching but losing
all significance upon arrival
as if they had wings
but no feet to stand on
and so were always already destined
for crash landing—and lo,

what flights of folly.

was i seen and heard and perceived for what i really am?

unknown.
if anything is clear:
i must learn to listen harder
if i am ever even to dream of truly speaking:
this itself is what it is to think.

these things are most difficult of all:
(not to scorn, mock, or despair at human action, but) to understand
to be kind to yourself
to pledge your body to the Idea
to persist in being
                           kind to yourself.

all Ideas have been betrayed.
a philosopher says:
all the world will ever offer you is the temptation to surrender.
the ethical act is to resist
to transgress
the transcendentally
stupid
cruel
law of this world.

there will be risk, there will be laceration, and anguish
but no one moment
is unendurable.

mieux vaut un désastre qu'un désêtre.

and so what might become of us?

imagine the most beautiful being in all of existence
and you'll almost be there.

i know nothing of love
that is not an extension of the sun.

i have become light.

i know nothing
but fascination.

what chance
to have laughed and danced

and to go on.

our song will never end:
it will only be taken up
by other instruments.

i have become light.

all that is lost
returns in altered form:
disguised, transfigured.

we will be transfigured.

what you seek
is seeking you.

how certain i was the dark would find no end!—and lo,

i have become light.

stronger than time.

a site of communication, ecstatic love, art
in the eye of god.

a dancing star.

i have become light.

what chance!

—i and all the others that will love you
forever and forever and
forever—

what chance
to have laughed and danced

and to go on.

time again, as if for the first—        not yet
does the earth have a meaning or a sense
and they neglected to tell the children
the limits of the possible are not set.

beneath the crust of daily indignities
courses the plane of unceasing life;
eruptions across history, one strife
if unsurrendered: serendipities.

go my soul, "love what you will never believe twice"
in the end, all there is is the throw of the dice.

did you notice when the words shed their skin?
the hour was late in the idle day
and the light of significance grew dim.
at the shore, the waves compelled you to stay

and you saw, in the waves that slid away
all the ways in which you could have altered
the course, and return, of waves come to claim
what was only ever borrowed from them.

two serpents of galactic consequence
are coiled in the incommensurable.

tender the longing
of days gone
unforgotten.
what luck that all that goes
returns in altered form.

so afraid was i
                                    to put pen to paper

for fear nothing would come, nothing
                                                         ­      would reveal

                                                         ­                    and lo, behold—

                              what chance
                                            to have stumbled
                                    upon this place.


          and but what if all my love turned to dust?
                    it would matte the silence like an untouched skin

                                                           ­  electric

           it came unseen, anterior to knowledge

                                                      ­       exceeding it


desire was the flame, the heat, the function, the burning bright, the sun, the roar and the dance, the play of frivolous gods, the bite, the consuming, the unrest of molten core, spark, flicker

desire was the sea, the waves coming to claim what was only ever borrowed from them, the bounty and breast and beacon of life, that vast graveyard, the unending gift, now peace, now storm

and desire was void and lacked nothing and produced
the real


                                                          ­            and what, for all that,
                                                           ­                       remains?


a quiet collection of dimming experiences
the tender redolence of human encounters
a song and music in the heart, if you are capable of listening carefully
a whole body blessed with the texture of gratitude
laughter—its promise


                                                       ­               an eternal joy, given
                                                           ­           in the senses
                                                          ­            and senselessly          


go now among the strange things of this world
and may your existence be a dance across time


to have dared will always have been
the essential,


                                                    ­       come desert, or mutilation,
                                                                ­                         or even flight

                                                        i­f yet flight.


we do not yet tread among the ashes of the sun.
there is something vaguely familiar to hope in that
at the very least. on.

and so i guess it's a question of whether the possibility
             of being close to each other
is worth enduring the actuality of the distance between us
             that we'll feel all the more sharply in the heart
for having already tasted the fruit of intimacy
             and found that all other delights are unsatisfying
for want of what was and what could yet be
              if it could yet be.

i want to tell her that everything i know about her
               fascinates me
and everything i don't know about her
               excites me.
i want us to be without restraint.
i want to show her and be shown the meaning of unknownness.
i want us to see what two bodies can do
if  you add just a few drops of chaos
and a splash of eternity.

life is eternal in the same way that our field of vision is without
limit.
if you cannot understand this, i cannot teach you.
to understand is what is most difficult of all
and of all the worthiest cause.

—and now there is music all around me, through me,
a zone of indiscernibility between us
—and the details of all these worlds i walk through
become such tiny temples
—and lo, all the texture of my life turned to gratitude
and they said:

look at that crazy ******* dance!

humans will go extinct.
all memory will vanish
like it never happened.
look deep into my eyes
as you take me with passion.

forever taking things apart, not quite
piecing them back together: that was all
we knew, in those idle days of quiet.
our pretty words were leaning how to crawl.

before long we found that we each had wings
that made doorways difficult to walk through.
the worship of imperceptible things,
looking back, without, should have been a clue.

but a series of truly insignificant detours
could not sustain—o blue!—  
                                                    the flight  
                                                        ­     we knew
                                                                ­ as recourse.

there is a girl lying dreamessly on my chest

her name is every name in history
                                             the forgotten ones especially

her skin is an alloy of time and
                                             meaninglessness

the rest is a dream, the real is somewhere
                                             between two infinite zeros

she sighs out of boredom beneath a sky
                                             of countless stars pretending
                                             they're not already dead

everything came into existence thanks to one sublime
                                             mistake, she says, affectlessly

our connection, our laughter, our fears, our
                                             love, all the ******* without end

and it's been mistakes ever since, less and less
                                             sublime, more and more
                                             disappointing

there is a girl lying dreamlessly on my chest

her eyes are populated with divine absences and
                                              machines that disassemble
                                              the beautiful

her hair is the colour of leaves in autumn bloom
                                              and flows into the sea
                                              of unknowable catastrophe

she laughs like an angel of the end times at
                                              the monuments i made her
                                              out of humanity's greatest ideas

they will not survive the present, she tells me
                                              with gleeful abandon

the more you know about something, the less
                                              real it is, she assures me

and i am inclined to believe her, as our bodies blend
                                              as we remember
                                                              that we are
                                                                   nothing more than functions

                            of heat

the books in my room gather dust.
time turns to satin—on the shore
of ideas, an old boat coats with rust.
in the wind echoes its engine's ancient roar.

children play their games in the street.
ashes of the sun flushed down the toilet.
all things seen and unseen begin their retreat
as fun comes to an end, the adults spoilt it.

not a day goes by—that's all, that's it.
no one wants even to ask if
                                                                 we're going to make it.

you wanted with such fury to be
to be kind
to be loving
to be generous
you wanted with such ardour to be
to be there
to be all to one
to be understanding and to be understood
you wanted with such frenzy to be
to be wild
to be tamed
to be seen and heard and touched

what happened?

you spent too long wanting
and never learnt how to get

but take heart, my joy,
there is time yet!

you spend so long looking for the right combination of words
they took your silence as a final answer.

mass grave of wasted days
outer reaches of meaningless ***
system of grand ideas amounting to
            0
dead heat of futility
thought migrating out of the confines of the human brain
endless reduplication of signs signifying
            **** all
black hole of love
commodities on all sides
lonely ecstasy
appearing without being
fishhooks of want
time without number
number without form
substance rotted from the inside
boredom
            filling interstices of voids

and you, if you, always
            somehow
untouched by these pallid things

keep on your seeking
            if you can,
o joy, go on, if you can

they spend thirst-filled days
and restless nights
scouring the ashes
in search
of traces of light.

and so what have i to offer you beyond
a collection of cheap and naive sentiments
matted in the dust of ineloquence?
i miss you, is all, but not even you:
an image of you, but not even an image:

the ghost of a fantasy. yes, i am
haunted, haunted by your absence
your senseless existence your
orbit without mass or distance
and all the rest, in its restless fabrication.

all that remains are your artefacts
with i among them, not quite intact.

most things are ****.
the spectacle goes on.
the last **** of the human species.
we're all doomed, but this has nothing
to do with you and me
now in this room, our bodies
and the heat between them.
let's get high and ****.

here now later gone before forgotten
all of want none of have some of lost
enough never too much always too little
too often
time wasted time waiting time regained
too late
intimacy short lived distance prolonged presence
of absence
heart emptied heart broken heart reforged
illusions clung to truth ignored the everyday
mundane
god dead god reborn god turned to money
past repeating future destroyed present
slipping away
a touch remembered a bond abandoned an idea
betrayed
a day alone a night alone forever sleepwalking
a dream a nightmare the blink of an eye
earth burns oceans poisoned permafrost melts
a fascist here a fascist there fascists everywhere
random kindness calculated malice endemic
indifference
an old oppression a new form of terror an eternal
struggle
freedom abstract cages carried wings torn off
here now later gone before forgotten
all of want none of have some of lost
enough never too much always too little
too often
time wasted time waiting time regained
too late

either me, here, wanting
for what isn't here,
what is lacking,
or,
the wanting, in its own fullness
drawing me in or pulling me out
from where i am not.
either way,
the waves ebbing up the beach
and the sky emptying itself
into a valley of time
somewhere where words
alloy with bodies
and metamorphose.

another rotation around the massive burning ball of gas
that gave a random rock ball countless forms of life and
a history
like no other in all the known and unknown universe.
22. not much to show for it, but no time at all
in the geologic scheme of things.
we are born between two unimaginably hot bodies:
the immobile sphere of the sun
and the flowing magma below.
here we are between two inhospitable environments
blooming like flowers.
and between us and each body, another between:
a silent infinite void
and the shifting crust booming with eruptions at the edges.
all this indifference to life paramount to its existence.
i like to think i've learnt a thing or two, but
i could be wrong.
for instance i said the sun is immobile and that the void
is silent. but the sun is at the edges of a galaxy
orbiting its centre, and the galaxy itself is on course
to collide with andromeda
to form a new galaxy altogether,
and celestial bodies have their songs,
you can even hear the rings of saturn singing.
so i could be wrong, it is a tradition of our species.
indeed i think this was the first thing i ever really learned:
how wrong you are, how there will always be more
to this world than what you know.
the next thing i really learned:
you do not know what a body can do, you do not know
how good a body can feel, not yet, but you will.
something i was taught, in passing:
no one moment is unendurable if you abide in the now.
all that is unendurable comes from letting the mind scout ahead
and letting it bring back a report of what is to come, and like
an idiot, listening to that report and believing the mind knows
what it is talking about. the mind is an idiot. listen to the body,
here, with you, not going anywhere. build a wall around each day,
each hour, each second if you have to. do not look over it, ahead or
behind, do not count. abide.
and last, but not least, something i am just now beginning to learn:
god is not what you think, like, at all,
and that's okay.
i've heard it said that love is just a word,
but nothing is just anything.
there are more planets than stars
but most of them have never been and will never be
touched by light or life.
all these statements are not wholly unrelated, as with
all things.
a wise monk will tell you that children of fire
seek after fire
whatever that means.

i’m always amused watching people
wake up from naps.
i like those sounds they make,
somewhere
between hums and yawns, not
ungrateful
but not impressed.
they remind me of cats, stretching,
the way they
softly feel about for a world they
aren’t quite ready for
just yet.
i like their eyes that don’t want
to open straight away,
as if it were too bright, or
as if they were squinting
at something in the distance, receding,
or
approaching,
or
impossible to tell.
it’s true
that the closer i looked at people, the more
often they would ask me:
what the hell are you doing so close to my face,
have you never heard of personal space?

there are signs out there.
almost nothing.
but if you follow them
they can lead you
to a world that will always
be more
than what you know.

1
at the inauguration of
the 45th
president of the most
powerful country on earth: a
White Man Of The Good One True Lord says
that in The Bible, rain
is the sign of
a blessing from
God.

2
perhaps rain is a blessing from God, perhaps
she's trying to cause a flood.

3
2016 was the hottest year on record.
we're going to boil,
America First
(well, really it's the poorest
non-white people who will feel it first, who are
feeling it as we speak,
as some speak of it
as if it wasn't real, our impact).
climate change and LGBT rights have already been removed from the White House website.

4
we all have our part to play
in the suicide of the human race.
America First.

5
perhaps i'll see you in the nuclear bunker
or if we're brave, by the barricades,
either way,
come bridges or walls,
this concerns us all, and
be careful, many still see the
skin
that is
not white, as dirt, and
be careful, The Man is not afraid
to grab you by the ***** (men
set the standard of ****** assault, ****,
what is acceptable; patriarchy
and patriotism go hand in hand, they even
descend from the same root word,
'ruling father', 'fatherland'), and
care for one another, defend
those who could just as well be you
next.
we are all just bodies that feed the machine.
we are all in chains, robbed of time, we all
have a world to gain.
"because things are the way they are
things will not stay the way they are."

6
when will a "Native American" be president?
is it not their land?
imagine what the world would look like
if the founding pillars of
America
had been genocide and slavery...
(it would look like this.)
can you imagine a Muslim president?
there's every reason to believe
that Foreign Policy means
terrorism
in a foreign language.

7
"first as tragedy, then as farce."
******'s moustache.
some strange yellow thing
on an orange head.

8
God as The Father
was a metaphor
that was appropriate for a time
past.
did you hear the one about the
astronaut?
when they returned to earth,
peopled asked them,
When you ascended into heaven,
did you see God?
the astronaut said Yes.
the people asked desperately of
what God was like.
the astronaut said,
She Is Black.
there's also the one about the rock.
no matter how massive and solid it is,
if you and the rock are
both falling off a cliff,
clinging onto it won't
save you.
my god is an indisputable
feeling
that comes and goes,
sometimes impossible, nevertheless
necessary.

9
"where there is oppression, there is
resistance."
"it is right
to rebel."

10
though the enemy is abominable,
you need not despair.
nor do you need hope
to take action.
out of nowhere, by hazard and courage and angst,
an event can change everything.
"cast away illusions,
prepare for struggle."

11
God bless the (Dis-)United States of America.

having
not having
having but not
enough
enough but not
wanted, saying
if but not for having                
nothing
not having but saying anything not
enough
but enough
if wanted but not enough.

grasping
ungrasping
grasping and letting go
grasping and not
reaching not enough
not catching not
holding
on, but go on
grasping, in the mud
ghosts for the letting go
not reaching but
again
again not catching but
closer
if still not holding if only but not
but saying enough
if saying is enough.

and we had but
yesterday as if it
was always
going to be
enough, but no
tense that we could scrounge up
between us
quite captured
the moment.
perhaps tomorrow.

it brought them something like catharsis,
knowing it wasn't working.
"that's enough now," one said to the other.
that was enough, for one, at least, and the rest
is the future.

who am i to deny signs?
footprints in the snow,
a sign that someone has
walked this path in
the cold, alone, before i did.
everywhere scattered, these worldly signs.
who am i to deny signs?
this midnight blue on
Barnett Newman's canvas
is not blue, but a blueness embodied—
not some scattered object or
amorphous person, but the open, what it is
to see, the difference
between this instance and the beyond,
this sensuous encounter.
who am i to deny signs?
these eyes, that look at me and see
me seeing what it is to be
seen, not as footprints
in the snow, nor even a work
of art, as no thing among
other things, but outside, outside this
universe of interpretation,
signs that speak of
an entirely other world of
experience, perception, possibility, of
love
that i can never
really know, for all that,
but still it calls and
demands that i decide
if i'll risk what is precious to me for
what could be precious to me or
nothing in the least.
but who am i to deny signs?

i know better than
to share what i call my
poetry
with the person i love.
as if for better, as if for worse.

and i bet they spoke to you
of you as you refused to know
yourself
and before you knew
it, you were open, sunlight.

and i bet they looked at you and you
saw that they could see what you had been
keeping secret just enough to make
beautiful,
and you smiled and couldn't stop.

and we were looking out forever in
opposite directions but there
was nothing behind what we
could see when we turned around.

and what else could tenderness be if not
revealing what you've kept
hidden even
from yourself?

they wanted
they didn't know
how
if
if it matters
but what else
if not
if not

else if but not wanted
matters not how
not knowing knowing if
if what else unknowing
not wanted but else wanted
if wanted
but how wanted
if only how wanted

and we were looking out forever in
opposite directions but there
was nothing behind what we
could see when we turned around.

and what else could tenderness be if not
revealing what you've kept
hidden even
from yourself?

defiance, maybe. resistance against a time
such as ours, for a time coming, if it's coming,
not so callous, our hearts, if they dared
at the edges of nowhere.

of your love nothing is known
but the event happened
therefore you exist.
indisputably.
between a name and
nothing at all.
if you insist, if you can.

you must resist

all the world's temptation to
yield
for the hazard of
something singular.
of your love nothing is known
as it is with all
processes of truth-becoming

traversing

eternity

and back again, in a flash.

it is so that
you are no more than
the sum
of your parts
but your parts are
infinite.