Everything is left, my love,

the hand of the filmmaker who tells you that is how he writes

the retreating back of the man in your room one night at dawn

but let’s not forget literal things like corners, astrology signs, highways, exits and serving plates

the right fin corresponding to the Darwinian left

the degrees in which a pirouette can twist and then suddenly not

the waves in which a barge will fathom before it realizes it is off course.

There are seasons of course,

entire families

and histories and names

Aso the last word that escaped your mouth.

What I want is to bear witness to this twin beating which is the sound of my heart in both wrists pulsing

as it does

forking between both sides of the body, mine, meridian and motherly and mistaken

that it is only one pulse not multiple as I had in mind.

Even mind that biforked mass one deductive And the other graceful, tells me

all is binary,my love,all is wingspan

if only you could fuse as one  if only

we could forget the things that leave

And return.

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