neon fruit supermarket

The world is filled with those who want someone else, just as the world is split in halves, or hemispheres if we want the word that says it with a measure of beauty.  Most times, we do.  But tonight, what you get is halves.  Tonight what you get is another unanswered question.  Something like, why do cyclones spin counter-clockwise in this half of the world? Something like my thoughts in the shower, my body washed by someone else, and I’m thinking of dark matter, not because my heart on its haunches sits bleeding out like last week’s roadkill possum, its hateful mouth red raw, but because dark matter is one more thing I won’t ever understand. No knowledge could I put on that might plug the holes, that might seal the chinks through which my mind goes after you.  When I read the absurd science of how we might one day upload our minds, it’s Ted Williams I’m thinking of: his severed head poorly cared for in its Kelvin crypt of absolute zero, now cracked, now the Splendid Splinter even in death. And it’s that wish I’m thinking of, to come back better or new, to walk out onto the pliant summers of our best years when we knew sex to be as easy, as assured, as breath. Love, the dark that waits holds answers like a winning hand and I’ve stopped asking.  Whatever I know, I build it as a bird builds her fragile bowl of a nest. And in that nest a bird sings. Of course, of course, she sings to the yolk yellow world inside each blue egg and for a time, for as long as I can stand, I listen.