Conspiratory Love Poem Addressing All Imaginable Possibilities
Two people in different boroughs could not survive
putting their heads together at one time,
such plans require feet and chests and hips;
these also have to get together or get near,
so everything ends up an ardent mess on an evening pier.
Arms can move a head, that's the trouble;
feet argue constantly with other feet
and treat the ground poorly.
Pretty soon it's Friday night,
and there are a bunch of people together making people.
Oh, horrible conspiracies! Oh summer sun groping down
into New Jersey! Spare us the periods and the condoms,
the commas and prosthetics; those two people necking
in the park are committing luxurious crime after crime!
She is a wheelbarrow; he is a wheelchair.
Ah, a little paranoia is a comfortable thing; a lot of
that sex is only what people do with their pets,
and on the return of steady breath sensuality is no longer
a bad witch in a pleather-sticky dress.
So I walked freely around with the slanted clouds
floating Uptown; my lightning was unzipped,
but on my way to meet you I realized that there was fog
all over my notion, so I perspired into Daybreak:
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