at our desks
tweaking the plots
of dreams we
have yet to dream—
working them,
kneading,
until we feel
we can smell
some faint form
of sweetness
rising from
their shells,
passing right through
and all around us,
and then,
just as quickly
leaving?
*
It's so much more productive
to catalog
the physical:
electrons
and up quarks;
protein strings
and ribosomes—
simple units
of fungible meaning
that only mean
themselves.
*
Self-love
is a destination
the same way
a mirage is:
a brutally-born
hallucination
which ardently
beatifies
the tyranny
of distance.