With Wayward Motion

The wind parted me.

Wind from nowhere.

It did not get up

from its snoring carriage

or offer me a bottled

sense of the near future.

It did not cry

so much as moan

into the mouth of  a

passing monument.

There goes my self

with invisible scissors

narrowing my loves,

dusting the pollen

off spring like another

previous opportunity.

We argued about what

could be unconditional.

We forgot to pay.

We forgot to die

was also our only chance

to be infinitive

in real time. One of us

loved the other like

an instrument that

would not ever again

be played

though it was perfectly

strung and oiled.

Mother love came up

and of course children

but what about their

scrotums and egg sacs,

could we already adore

those in extremis?

The wind was all over

my face reminding me

of my other affairs:

The impermissible.

The impermanent.

The sex between all

who already possessed

themselves and were

satisfied, not by me.