The Metaphysics of Your Presence
A fragment. To be followed by an infinitive phrase.
Your hipster cynical voice. One. Then two. Then three words.
In sequence. Subject without predicate. Running to passion
(Predicate without subject). The obligatory foreign phrase
And obscure allusion. The Sprachspiele pregnant
With mandrakes. And these interstices! The spaces
Between letters, between words, the distance between
You and me, the god of the gaps. The present
Absence so rich in irony. The clever puns on the “to be”
Infinitive are infinite. By now you may have guessed
You’re in the presence of a love poem. Or maybe you see
Something more. The futility. The storm inside.
Whatever it is, it elides meaning. It doesn’t need me.
Or us. It leaves you alone to make of it what you like.
