certain degrees of want,
the smallest circle around
everchanging numbers like 40
or 136 depending on your hips
on how happy you are to
watch me wander in

not wandering, i know
where we ought to end up:
the glum dumb atlantic
the monster fucking whirling
animal that blacks the shores
with acute departure. not really
lusting either at the end,
it just seems sort of
sad when you think about it.

if you ever think about it &
i want to ask you
while you sleep, where does
the universe end & will you
hurl me off the edge?
i would very much like to see
if fall can find me faster
than i undoubtedly can find
the fall & it isn’t even april.