barely infinite

If the mood were subjunctive,
I’d wake up
and rise to another
plane in the multiverse.

I’d love you to pieces, and then
rearrange them by the North
wind in patterns of three, not four
and instantly regret
all the moving.

I’d shake, not stir
my thoughts, scattered across
simple grammars and embedded
clauses so deep nobody cares.
Or maybe I’d use
the combination of Ctrl+z
to return

To when we might have met
and discovered breathing together
and the world’s alphabets
suddenly made sense.


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