Q

(or, the crudeness of measurement)

Subatom flicker

– ing through a haze of probability
into the lick of my open palm,

finding you was mere plot: latitude against longitude
on an imaginary plane.

To keep you safe I swallow you whole. Warm for days,
you burn into nights.      I measure skid marks
to chase your spin and speed

but logic has lost count. A second is a braid
that unspools into hours held
by thumb on throat to your pulse now mine.

The neighbour upstairs thinks I am possessed.

The letterbox creaks for release.

Inside me a glyph spreads like virus, foreign
and incurable.