The bald marrow in my femur
Throbs for you like meat-putty
A sonogram jism dream quivvering
Like waves through gelatin
I go weighted with the ballast
A cargo lit in glycerine pajamas
My desire is a pendulum centered
Don’t call me ‘Post-Modern’
My love is a fractured scripture
A testement to abandoned gambling
If I ramble, it’s only the architecture
Of what pumps in my chest for you
If the body has memory, I remember you
Like riding a bicycle—something you never forget
I am the laser; you are the hologram
I can put my hand right through you
I turn my love on your lathe
You spin me outward from the core
From pinpoint atom to galaxy complete
Spin me once and once, amor.
Your pulleys and inclinations
Your yawning vacuums
Your slick mechanisms
Our bodies in motion
There is nothing sexy as science
Our research and alliance proves it
Beyond the Nobel Prize for
Physical feats discovered or imagined
We conjugate
Centrifugal whirl anticipate
Action—reaction
The third law of lubrication
If you push me beyond the speed of light
I achieve infinite wood.
You smile and say, “I knew you could.”
Gravity inhales your scent.
Your pulleys and inclinations
Your yawning vacuums
Your slick mechanisms
Our bodies in motion
My vocation is to discover you
Explore the mysteries of your machine
Take your theory to bed with me
Study the folds of your universe.
