As though our daily explanation were buried in the script of a lonely nebula
Singing its comfort across impossible years of distance
Unraveled and transliterated, would it blueprint my heartpatterns
The mathematics of our poetry
Transcribed in inorganic dust storms
Or is perfection too regulated for such trivialities
Is it instead the tainted soil beneath that curates the mundane probabilities
Do I seek homogeneity with the breathless
To reason away my own precipitate breathing
***I wanted to see how many multisyllabic words I could cram in. As it turns out, a lot, and transcribing this now was like eating seaweed salad with a spoon.
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