EARLIER TODAY

EARLIER TODAY

read my poem
read my flow
saw it
      go

slow; fast-slow

slower, faster
than Andrew Marvell’s
“To His Coy Mistress”

pored over, read until
it glowed
   became cataclysmic

went Krakatoa, erupted
like Vesuvius

as if just
    to prove
you ain’t never read
a poem like this before

read
    you got
you to read me
like textually can
be nothing
beyond
this logically

like we wake tomorrow
only to realize
there
   is no tomorrow
wrong
  on all counts
when we thought there could be

a fit ending
    I might add

for this
     insurpassable dovetailing
of poem and writer
writer
    and reader

flush menage a trois
    of everything
fitting
   beyond perfectly