Beyond us, them, 4% atoms, tiny
wriggling strings; hidden, 22% of the tug —

dark and unknown prostrations
fixed on voices, a first luscious, noiseless bond.

Not running after, walking rapidly, I cross
the hall where the heat transfers ....

Transfers. We can call it that
adding up the lead and trapdoor time, eyes

open, moving, waiting, transferring
but hardly blasphemy. Not that I care.

An irrational lyric? You and I can’t transfer that,
touching on our dual roles as we reradiate consensus.