Common Thread

It is easy for me to imagine I am
full of threads that tie to your joints,
and every knot invents luminosity
that impersonates the real thing.

It is harder for me to imagine that
light was formerly mass,
the absence of being, being what is
palpable. Despite being so disorderly

those particles are entropic,
like our clothes on the floor when
those articles are removed and bare skin
cedes to skeins between us, formerly mass.

The wilderness is reimagined
when I admit I was not born a lover,
but maybe the absence of has made
me such. Any semblance of the real thing
isn't enough.

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