by Peter Hogan
Since your hair is feathers, I know
if I pluck a strand, it will fall
at the same velocity my keys
do every time we kiss
before I get in my car to leave.
They hit like a Newton apple.
The sound resonates in every standing hair
on my arm. I know that we share
neurons, that some part of me was once you,
but there is still no law to encompass
what vortexes my mind when I arc
my lips to you ears, the electrostatic
in resting my chin on your neck.
What I am saying is that I have always known you.
What I am saying is that energy is neither created
nor destroyed, that part of us does
not die with stars.
I recall the molecules, how we began,
galactic vapor, ascension,
laying down in a nebula.