Where do my love and I belong?
At water’s noisy confluences
under accidental overhang
in bed of meadow inclusioning.
We are not made of wires on poles
not born of mashed bark bleached
and covered with squiggles of sharpened
charcoal, we are not signs.
The calculations men flagellate with
feed on numbers and variables
not theirs, not manly or belonging
to our too-hunting species.
The forms and terms of equations
supposedly specifying the curves
of our outcomes are not womany
or childish, or even civilized.
Mammals neither spell nor digitize
the descent into projected space
and time is a devilish temptation
away from Eden and up to Moon.
Wherever my love and I belong
she puts into my mouth new berries
old promises, starts and endings
of theories about who we are.