there are galaxies
locked away inside me,
so I guess
there must be
at least one or two
socked away inside
you too—
and although
it must sound as if
the opposite
is true,
that's exactly why
it feels so
businesslike
whenever
either one of us
tries to win a fight.
Those little
hot flashes, those tiny
realistic stings
are hapless
quadrillions
of planets colliding
and quasars
playing chicken til they
silently annihilate—
and all
for the designless,
inevitable sake
of huge forces'
compulsion to
merge with each other,
and thereby,
to fill a
compliant universe
with whole lot less
of themselves
as they were
in exchange for new
dominion over
just a little more.
