interference patter

The medium near-ideal, it’s as if you and I fell into pools of still water. 

Now, whenever we’re near, our auras in common parlance flimmer, bend, or go on the fritz. 

But all this information’s old. 

Yes, the heart’s telemetric. 

Hyperlocal — I mean, amniotic — like a birthmark, pulse to pulse, its frequency’s set. 

The beat drifts and flares. 

Our fibers take up the leitmotiv. 

It plumbs to the core. 

It keeps the humors pure.

The organs, rigged and shimmering.

face tilted toward the sun to watch an hour weaken

When you say my name — ornament and instrument — inflorescent, an orchid is traced.

In this way, I identify with floral reproduction.

As — as if with a flourish of the tongue — grammar and glamor might re-enfold one another.

With every breath, beneath the surface: an orchid, occult, illumined, effaced.

oversimply I won’t say synapse unless necessary

Is this what we’ve been seeking all along: not tautology but like a wire, two points at a distance, hyperstatic, lapped in copper, imposed over one another entire? 

Nearer even than the image to the mirror. 

Virtually as near, say, as Manahatta is to Manhattan. 

The iris dilates: the message is sent. 

Iridescent, light — heat — hits it. 

A scythe can’t split it. 

Close your eyes: from the river to the sea, they’re there.

A limn of blood or veil of tears: the very definition of nearness. 

Gabriel Kruis is the author of Acid Virga (Archway Editions) and a co-founder of Wendy's Subway. He lives in Ireland. Look for others of his poems on the web, they're there.