You open, wing-like & one-sided. How halves make the smirk
& you always two things gathering. Together, repeats you.
Opposites never really dance on ends; instead, this infinite loop,
which goes on without us, because our anatomy knows of
circles & circulation; & when we say infinite, or trace our clever
little ovals kissing, we know we don't mean human. Loops tend
to end with something in the body attacking, think misbehave, a
giving up, twisted ___, a failing, cancer-this/cancer-that,
smashing metal, a taking, smashing glass, & the list, in fact, goes
on in meaningless ways in which words struggle to line-up, end
to end, ironically, in domino fashion, to be knocked down by
the inability to label all possibilities. This fallible roundness
tunnels me to you. I remain in ellipsis at your ribcage; peer in
the vast; hug these bone-bars; scribble path that weaves
ventricles & times pumps; long for a whole, a tremor, oblique.