I am not your friend. I care nothing for
enjambments. An integer growing a tail
of decimals, I am famous for indeterminacy.
Into musical compositions I insert the incidental
buzz of strings. From a distance the heavens
appear to be smooth; I riddle them with polyps.
Every night I remind you of a missed kiss.
Every night you lie within my intractable
boundaries and rue the width of your margin
of error. You cannot remedy my little fevers
that make you pucker like burning paper
and curl you at the edges. I distribute
the minutes like hours. You will die anyway.
Because of me, you know this incontrovertibly.
