Worse and better,
the urge to take your shoulders
and push them against a hard shape
and take your breath in my mouth
only to return it again, my own.
Worse and better,
the desire to hold you
in motionless motion
and not say anything
at all.
Worse and better–
myself at you
without a question
except for where
and when
and in how many ways how.
It is worse and better
this need to let the rust
developing on body’s heart
crush off as the words
words words words
make their dash
towards the end of the arm
towards the tip of the pen
towards your eyes
It is worse
because it is as deep as you
where you lie beside me, all angles ablaze.
It is better
because I know that I am more endless
not only deep, but without depth
full of fathoms
I will yet
add infinity to
