As though love were not enough.
As though I would not flow into you and you out of me.
As though I would not swim this moment and never surface to breathe.
As though I have not been chewed and swallowed and digested.
As though I even exist.
As though you and I were not already mapped atom to atom.
As though you and I were not more real and less real than the thought of your lips on my skin.
As though you and I were not this sun which blinds me.

in the swaying
this branch this wind
not-one not-two

This day exactly this day
and without effort, yet
I wrestle with who
and what
and why.

Round and round, empty and full.

So simple a truth
still unfathomed, for
there is nothing, nothing
that I ought to be.

rising redorange
without meaning
thermonuclear
without form
this heart
without limit

Must we be as objects?
Is there no other way?
But in this abstract of distance
I would will my tongue to phrase your body so
and bring these selves that do not exist
into tangency.

There are still nights
when I tire of creating myself
each moment and each moment--
ex nihilo, as it were.

Fiat lux! Fiat lux!
Again and again and again.

And yet
is it not this knife's-edge existence
this cusp of becoming
that shows so clearly that everything is
and is not?