Where do I end up
and you begin? What is out
and what is in? Are we a random
wanton glut of quantum
probabilities? Are we in a rut
of DNA-decreed explicabilities –
predictable as prison life:
trapped in our impermeable cells?
Are the rife and ardent swells
of love we’ve felt significant
beyond hormonal flush – involuntary rush
and belt of moan and squeal
and capillaries filling with reflexive zeal
and bodily inconstancy?
Can you know me?
Can I know you? What is true?
Pattern? Splatter?
Does it matter?
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