Hey Love (Infinity)

I’m gunning, Love—afforded this last dance, to realize that childhood has vanished: this pleat in souls, this cavalier gut, or terror to brains—as assisted dying, or assisted living, this passion floored by science: this metaphysic, this angst at pillows, or agony cornered by justice: our brown moons, this humpback whale, those displays realizing existence: our leaps, Love; our anxious leaps—this paraded inner carnival: as men grinning, this laughter with sin, as one drowning in cadence: those pink suns, as about but one, our cheesy aggregates: to love at Love, this gracious creature, this morbid human: our alpacas, this fleece for literature, this playful ferret: our dreams, Love, this creative globe, our echidna comforts: to sense those eyes, alive our rhythm, to slice as pizza one last indulgence.     You smile gently, as one hypnotized, or one by innocence: to have lost so much, this porcupine existence, this mesmerized quokka: our koala friends, our defrosted hearts, or better, those cheeky rebuttals: this forest of canines, this racing dingo, or those battlefields laced in coyotes: as mere souls, needing so little, to realize this need for kinship: as torn octopus, or prehistoric sabers, while father remains this encrypted mystery: to touch by eyes, this late night agenda, while it hurts to compose: as sky-tombs, or sky-fires, alive this ache eating our intestines.     I love this you, as adoring this coming metamorphosis, to realize that I’ll see us late into those new eyes: as truths whisper, as grains howl, where clouds appear with brilliance: this raining casket, this grave of souls, or this thing called worm grunting: as families shiver, where granny speaks wisdom, while apologies fly by heated frenzies: those running nuns, this sick spider, or those sneezing tree rings: while pentacles bleed, or piranhas play friendly, or medicinal application arrives with mercy: our patients dying, our therapies seeming askew, while mothers dance seeming to ignore those first months: as young villains, or redeemed snakes, to ask so little concerning our futures.     I could to live, this jararaca, or this woman swearing by chitzsu(s): this pregnant dugite, this man unexcited, where undercurrents flatter disease: those weekly bandages, this mental scandalous, or more, this person feeling sheer perfection: as days cling to passions, where fools love for disasters, as cries these souls clinging to offspring: but more to existence, as more to love, while agonizing over our departure: those sea-monster quilts, this sea-monster human, or more to life, this sea-monster swan: those trenchant genetics, this agitated self, or this coming into existence: to realize frustrations, while unclear about resolutions, where simplicities become offensive: this life in Main, this trip through London, or this wonderful person that misses our existence: indeed, Love, this complex persistence, this daily insistence, or our brains merging with lights: as sheer superegos, or radicalized egos, or geared to perish as mere an Id: our blurry duplex, this centripetal nightmare, or this curse pushing us towards realization: as cursed but moving, or dead but breathing, or too at ease to pay close attention.