Theories of Everything

The wick in the moth is less deadly

than physics is in you.

Back then, you said Curie wasn’t sorry;

now we wear prosthetic spirits.

You’ve fallen asleep head-on-desk,

computer-lit and eerie, an astronaut adrift

amongst wastepaper stars,

and I’ve slid from bed to steal your calculations.

Not the flat, careful pages; it’s the wild ones,

the trashed ones ā€“

forced into three dimensions, twisted,

layered, and intersected ā€“

that conceive the strangest things.

They crackle up my housecoat sleeves,

each puff nipping my unnerves

with its audacious reality, the way you once

chased my blush from chest to cheek.

Now when you stroke my skin

you touch mere electromagnetism.

Yet your unmind also crumples, coils,

winds, and intertwines

into a ball of electric poetry

that arcs sometimes to shock me;

while your body yields like a ghost.

So I fold you, knot, curl, and bend you

to steal the jump between us

and innervate the dead.

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