Come Back

I hate how I can’t keep this tremor inside, this mute

matter of being made extant, this shiver in being, in

no not-being, this wild flying up from the inner surge

and this crack in the apparatus espied around

the corner from my particular warble, this

quiver of dissolution in the pool of no single thing,

this break in the entity of the single, of not

a mistake in being made, this suffering of trying

to contain the infinite in language, this refusal

inextricable from its mass; this love, love of

love, this being only in your presence, this inability

not to err, rather the constitution of my broken image

caressed by this, this permission to submerge, this bigger

and bigger being, tremor of infinite allowances, this telos

of cataloging that which can never be disappeared.