I sense the man
but defining him is the art
of interring bullets into a wall
of mingling the air within their barbs
until one grasps his breath
and observes his essence:
are you like God or aren’t you?
If I were inhaled into your awoken tissues
and BloodBalled the wall,
If every quill were an idea
dormant at the threat of bloom,
could we lie on them on broken night crystals?
If time branched among sheets of ice
and on millions of instants I learned your body,
If lying on each other networked every neuron and thought,
could I yell Eureka?
If you weaved medullas and pierced tongues
to a domain-range sonata
doodling axes through sweaty umbilici,
fluttering under curves around limits through
the inflections of silence
Will I find proof of divinity?