space and time

                              I never existed before that point: all matter
                              and manner squeezed into the tiniest of rooms.

                              So awkward, I erupted: a wave that washed you
                              in quasars; the cosmos, of course, were shattered.

                              I laughed, but swept the stars back when you turned
                              away. You said gravity warps me

                              to silly little things. Now we’ve hung our picture
                              all over galaxies. Each night

                              I drag the universe from under your body.
                              You sleep. I will soon.

                              Even the darkness will
                              not move.