in crossing over
is it we who hollow out
the combustible matter, grow wide
with dying or is it this breadth of life,
a god we decry in the ring-of-being-free;
decry past the preeminence in utero;
past the future where to die is without this?
without the hollowing?
not by the dark alone is a universe constrained by law
complicit with a lawgiver whose sight is the very light used to expel the god
is a universe blind to it’s own—a marriage of all & nothing as if truth somewhere must be interred to answer the curse pregnant
in the "well-reasoned" life love can bestow
it is not because of a hole in the ground (where nothing is life)
that this "is" as us seek the advantage of being—but without
voids (infinite or not) the advantage is only a seeming
if the truth be told, it is a wild absence not constrained even by its presence
if that is
it is not because of the future when nothing is life that this nothing of life becomes the advantage of being in love—but without this nothing the advantage is nothing & being, like truth, the comic result—the commingling where no plug gets known; the union only careless genitals claim to own
but there is a future?
there is a love?
—if not, than the advantage the past gains with every intercourse is nullified as is the dark careless with each spark of fire—it is not because of life, where nothing is death that a bright universe depends—but being without, well that "is" is the preponderance of tragic innocence
for those who wake there is a universe, whereas in sleep each turns away
into their own expanse of place for to dream is a “common” to all alive
whereas the dead are both entirely “singular” & perfectly turned into one
what death reveals as love is the penetration of a sun
& like every immortal, earthbound desire, the thing to come comes—& this as the distance the dark is—the distance no death
begins & yet a beginning to all this useless everlasting