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,
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