How funny, though I’ve never had you, and I was never yours,
that if you were to be gone, irreversibly, in your place
would be a gaping hole, smoking and raw,
as if from a gunshot.
--- Your hand roams over my back, and I will
give you a friendly nudge, --- a zealous accountant,
I’ll count these to the decimal.
My solar plexus runs amok again,
I am not quite sure why, or why
I am imagining