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lettres d’amour.

A split lip; a split infinitive;
a hairline fracture to slyly
bridle the chain.

Where are the years of striated agate,
of asphalt gritted in the knee?

Soft soft the must of goosedown & dust,
the muffled weathered fur.
Soft soft the animal newness of toothless
mewling for milk.
Soft soft the finger slipped inside
the sweet salt ripening of another
sighing body. Softer the cry of voice.

These are theories
for what the tongue does with words.

These are lavish explanations
for the prehensile absurdity
of the idea of a knowable universe.
These are pigeon-toed foxes chirruping
over scavenged remains.
This is a myth of revelation no one dares
rescind.

Sweet one why must anything
be determined?
Sweet one why the torn & scrambling paws?
There can be no certainty on an infinite plane.
Touch the answer
and a proliferation of lunacy wriggles forth
like maggots from the skin. The absolute
cascades of laughter.

We keep counting
what little
we can see.