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.

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