Ouroboros

In farewell, my lips touch yours. 
Tongue jabs tongue, you’re in my arms. 
We stand bound: God’s will 
closed to our vote, but, accepting, we mime 
Kekule’s benzene snakes. 

Body begins with body. 
The careful abrasion 
excites, expands the closed space within: 
fitful air blown in a balloon. 
This, Bergson’s duration. 

The felt time accelerates: 
each occasion overlaps the next, 
the unending surge of positive feedback 
ordering the destruction of all— 
Runaway to zero. 

Ends foretell beginnings: 
like Lemaitre’s primeval atom, 
Love, the beginning of all, explodes 
into a universe and dies an atom. 
This, Adam’s serpent. 
Foreordination. 

My lips touch yours, my love.