The specific gravity of what
you mean to me is buried in
semantics, layer upon layer
the earth in contraction
pushes and shoves, the mother
labouring to give birth to new
landscapes, upon which matted
we begin, in bubbles of boredom
across the breakfast table, the mesa
or plateau in the textbook geomorphed
into Ikea conformity, the natives
circle the condiments hollering for
all they are darned worth, then a blanket
of salt on sunny side up, the solar
system egged unwillingly into 9-5
would it be better that the rock in which
we are fossilized as the husband and wife
could shatter, freeing our essences
instead of the life-death of the mortgage
that pensioned off our rebellion,
the painting of us in bed, smoking a joint
and making love, now ambered into routine.
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