Still thinking about you every
so often, I wonder whether
the paradox of Zeno
isn't the real reason
I still feel safe reaching—
across camouflaged time
and dubiously
empty space, tiptoeing lightly
as I pass
around all the noisy hollow
containers, the trash left over
from sugary memories,
and the pale changeling bodies
of every possible
unborn child—
and if simply halving the distance
stepping by-numbers,
then fractions
of numbers,
isn't the best, if not only way
to move forward
incorporeally
toward what I take to be
your face,
two outstretched
arms, and chest—in a theoretically
classic gesture
of comfort
and genuine condolence,
without ever
having, mathematically
speaking, to wreck all that
by embracing.
