by Steven J. Serafiani
In this time alone,
Carpathian range extends.
There will always be a philosopher swabbing
my earlobes, the burn a
tickle, a trowel nudging terra firma
maybe it’s this bottle of red pucker; or
this has been always.
My finite being,
even as child,
swirled like the galaxies in books
look up- it’s all there
wide eyed youth to drawbridge now
it’s always been there
I don’t question the things that cannot be
answered. No, but I do question my
ultimately cannot be answered. This is
chaos repeat repeat
repeat, I accept but I
need to add some meaning to
this pinhead, no?
a bubble of pure, a blink of connection, a
gasp of love?
A plea till
supernova reach as my matter
your matter our matter becomes infinite, as was