the morning in the yard, wiping toast crumbs off my jeans.
For god’s sake – I was excited by – let’s call it data.
Imagine a small piece of matter
about my size,
now imagine it’s morning, let’s say 6:31 am,
mist in the conifers, a cuckoo, then in the road, reversing, a car
sure red’s as good a colour as any,
then let us say, spaghetti.
Spaghetti is like the bath overrun:
that’s you or me crossing the event horizon
matter, or Mike so warm on my chest, brooding
he is my very own human electric blanket
stretching out, the windows a string of zeroes.
Let’s say the darker the matter the better the punchline
and memories live on with the length-meaning of n.
There is a kind of equilibrium to sadness
the death of someone so close to you; do eight minutes pass
before it ghosts into you – the pan handle’s heat through a tea-towel? No.
The Northern Lights’ lavender green dust
happens to be the sun, I can’t fill the void.
Flying at 3,000 times the speed of sound,
that’s the way he makes me feel, his self-diagnosing
the tea bag bobs in the water, the Beach Boys upstairs.
Ah, this is your lifeline, it is like the Orion test
booster exiting the Florida cirrus –
this is where your love line crosses –
mine does the same, here, observe,
to kiss you took years of research
there are some things you can explain
come down to the kitchen and dance with me.