My sweetheart lurks on the horizon,
doing what’s necessary to bridge the gap
between what’s here and beyond the sun;
she gives her man, perhaps, a little slap,

and then repents—having chosen the best
man around. Does it bother me to live
alone, when she’s at another’s behest?
But there’s nothing, do tell, to forgive,

More of me aligns than doesn’t, which
establishes the awareness, in me,
of the parts that are not aware, the stitch,
in time, that outlines the seam that would be

part and parcel of my maker. Likewise,
when the first soul formed, more of what,
essentially, composes a soul (in disguise
or not), aligned, and He (this Adam), shut

If I should wonder what happens next,
thinking i’ve reached the beginning of time,
aligned with my maker without pretext,
just me and the slate that becomes my rhyme,

then I, in turn, would think of my sweetheart,
and the event that she, in my absence,
completes. What do we do, after the start,
when jobs are not needed, driven hence,

Every point in space is equally
real, and important. Therefore, to say
that space, as a collection to be
compressed, once—now, not so much,

is to discount the existence of space.
I do not say, then, that the infinite
expands; I save my original place,
a room within a room, an address fit

Time is the distance i traverse, walking from my home to my neighbor’s—who happens to be a member of my family—we’re surrounded, by our parents, our siblings, and our children, beyond that, we see our grandparents, and our grandchildren, and so on and so forth—each person placed within each loop, according to the importance they played in our lives. The landscape i see, in the distance, is a little different than the one that others might see, because it is a function of my influence. Thus, my parents live round me, and my grandparents live round them—but, also, in my world, they live in a loop beyond my parents, so i see a combination of the landscape they see, the landscape my parents see, from their origin, and the one i would see, from my origin.

up half the night, trying to tune him out
as he attempts to correct my flaws.
the correction, in time, is about
to arrive; so, it should obey His laws.

There’s no need to panic; all is not lost,
but, even if it were, this does no good,
compounding the night—what this would cost,
if worry accomplished what it should.

Wishing he didn’t find so many holes
in my work, at least, that is, all at once;
my love, for me, takes on different roles,
determined to prove that i’m no dunce,

and yet, i must ask, is it all too much?
there’s no point to answering these questions
if, along the way, i wax out of touch,
and succumb to the devil’s machinations,

Supposing, then, i was raised by him,
and events should lead to my rebirth:
i’d vanish, then, from parents prim,
who, in turn, would consider my worth.

So what, then, of the time in between
my disappearance and coming of age?
Now, since, in heaven, we’re never keen
to leave our family, we see the stage

Extending a hand to a friend therein,
amidst the chaos of a two-fold mind;
he is forced, against his will, to sin,
which leads me to think he is ill-defined.

perhaps, all in all, i am partly to blame,
having tuned to what would keep him sane—
thinking, as he must, that life is a game,
changing, for worse, the wiring of his brain,

I ask what happens when, in tuning out
the bad, by tuning to any regulated
frequency, i project my voice about
the target frequency that lives in my head,

a function of my birth, in part, and I
miss out, a little, on total alignment.
I conclude that, because I always try
to tune out the bad, invitations are sent