I risk an early death by sitting down for this
so listen: my clavicles move like daggers
to write cut-throat poetry for you
no jokes. no mirrors.
This here is a message you cannot unread. Also, it ages
less quickly than we do. When you and I have turned
into dust, this thing will be around.
I wanted it engraved, as our signature on a granite rock
to be unearthed after seventy-two generations. Then came doubt:
I don’t know which is greater: the horror of their gaze
or the horror of nothingness
But since that is no ending, I will throw this thing
into the tiding ocean of geological time
shall we uncork it so it dissolves like the salt on your tongue
when we drink tequilas or make love?