If it’s fact
is neither created nor destroyed,
what the hell has happened to me? I have a history of
lightspeed love, of bursting
into flames at the slightest inkling of connection.
I must be a latent explosive. I must be
the fixture in the pole at the fire-station, ready,
ready, ready. If energy is
neither created nor destroyed,
what do you have hidden
in your hands? What did you put in my mouth that short-wired the order
and distempered the peace?
I must have stolen time, heat, or light
from a place hidden to everyone else: pocketbooks in landfills,
star shadows, the drawings of sleeping children. Where
did I get the vibrating mass of expansion?
From you, from the us
that isn’t us yet. From the gods.
Call me Prometheus. Call me Pilgrim. There was never
a new land to land on. It was stolen. I’m
terrified. I am fucking glowing
in your reflection, and I know,
I know I know the basic laws of physics
involve time as a one directional thing,
and space as a polyglot
from another country. But I want to see you, again
and again and again.
Don’t make me put this fire out.
If love is neither created nor destroyed, then it was here already.
This is no new land to land on, but maybe, maybe, it’s one we can share.