Dear P. XXIV

The scientific has gone, what’s left—fires

that leap, that suction my love into threads

I cannot collect or control. Frequencies

here have no waveform. Just straight lines

towards. Everything has excavated itself

and everything has altered in the way water

in a pool breaks up light into pieces, in the

way the light is tranced into approximations

and deviations, into eyeless swirls that never

fix. I have born witness to this giant, this

love for you that never leaves, that burrows

laterally and downwards, that imprints on

my skin, the way goggles leave a mark long

after I have taken them off.