You are telling me something from your bed
but the night is already distended and I am full
of theories,
since moving to this city was an experiment
I may never understand.
Love is this kinky
intersection where we live—one-way streets bending
opposite again,
like hula-hooping. Intuition never taught you
how to spin opposite my hips.
But I can sleep now
in the bed where we never
made love, I can stand
on the subway knowing you sit above
ground.
Your resonance, my patterns, fear.
You resisted
with the same force as I loved and
attracted you.
Isn't that how gravity is? Geometric:
paths that are some form
of orbital acceleration. The strange
power even I
couldn’t reverse: the traffic on your street.