Thursday, December 12, 2019


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
and fervor

as it swerves
all over my room—
first pursuing, then

turning some
theoretical corner
and disappearing—

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.