This particle
of love I carry
is not platonic,
but it isn't very
romantic either—
it can't decide
whether it's positive
or negative-
ly charged—
it must be some
third kind
of charmed and
unnamed matter,
which, here
in the present,
utterly refuses
to be observed.
At night,
when I'm still
I can just barely feel
the ripples
of alternating
reticence
and fervor
as it swerves
all over my room—
first pursuing, then
turning some
theoretical corner
and disappearing—
reemerging
perhaps
in the alley
behind the street
where you're living,
where your dog
is content to piss
when it's raining,
where you toss
the trash bags
from last night's party
in the morning—
while, simultaneously,
I'm tossing
and turning in bed
feeling upset
about some calamity
on the other side of the world.
