LOCK
love is that
gleaming apple
too high
up
the tree
it is
the death bed of the intellectual
fatal aporia
kills
their categories
it is the puzzle
with too many pieces
for the box
infinite choice
the blurb on
the sleeve
pity barely any fit together let alone
interlock
and you told yourself
it would be all too easy
are we not
so perfectly designed for this?
poems 2 die for 