All those fantasies of two-become-ONE-Ness need cleaning.
Imagine the alternative: movies all about love
affairs with yourself.

Imagine bliss of arms wrapped tenderly about
the backs of dancing, gowned individuals,
happily in love with the must of their own
sweaty cleavage.

It all began with that tense umbilical
isthmus—I blame
it. 

Match the human brain with connection
and then every act is a backtrack to mother.

Every petty daily journey is an Everest climb
clinging to dangerous umbilic ropes without which—death.
Sublime fantasies of womb-warmth
and all those pretty veins.  Those fetal-memories
of errant swigs and capricious candies.
Pokes from the father.  Hymns.  Our disappearing wings.

Tails subsiding.  Grounded, then—born:
abandoned.

So we climb trees, cling, fuck, imagine the core
of the tree when we enter each other and

intrinsically—yes—we are a heaving parabola
of sparrows.

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