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Dropping
to be
finite is really a partial negation
Spinoza,
Ethics i.8
each substance must be
infinite
you
understand
nothing but limit
this
body
with frosted lips
the model who gets
men
in love
with an
image
their hearts in the dark
appetisingly
scandalous
stories
taunt them
that’s the way it is
sadness
jammed
under the
ribs
(but one is missing)
subtleties
swallowed
with pills
each morning after
when every bedroom
should
have two
doors
I’ll endure
your weathering stare
step
outside
the snow
intense
as a nun at prayer
(words
measure
the air
between
that drift this footfall)
believing I’ll make
you
the one
who warms
the rock
that warms my body
midwinter
skinny-dipping
we won’t need currents
to
direct
curlicue
tongues
rippling together
twenty-nine light years
colouring
your cheeks
I’ll smile
my skin will crackle
like
pond ice
you swim
across
kicking underneath
the
breast-bone
your arms
outstretched
never connecting
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