See how we are
monuments, far afield?
See how at once we crash
and glide apart
in a theory as ridiculous
as it is self-evident?
We form memorials
that steadily erode.
We build edifices
which in time are picked
apart. Our lithic earth ebbs
and flows like liquid.
And the details
of steady ground
become lost
in the shake-up
.
Our relationship remains
made of dirt, piled upon clay;
love might be bedrock,
but even it folds
in sheets under stress.
I might prefer a plainer
geography, without curves
or crags, a navigable distance,
but we are distanced
by an ocean of rock,
my wishes scuttling across,
like an insect, or a ship, mid-crawl.
I fear I might be drifting away
but on a sphere
every movement brings you closer.