The Metaphysics of Your Presence

A fragment. To be followed by an infinitive phrase.

Your hipster cynical voice. One. Then two. Then three words.

In sequence. Subject without predicate. Running to passion

(Predicate without subject). The obligatory foreign phrase

And obscure allusion. The Sprachspiele pregnant

With mandrakes. And these interstices! The spaces

Between letters, between words, the distance between

You and me, the god of the gaps.               The present

Absence so rich in irony. The clever puns on the “to be”

Infinitive are infinite. By now you may have guessed

You’re in the presence of a love poem. Or maybe you see

Something more. The futility. The storm inside.

Whatever it is, it elides meaning. It doesn’t need me.

Or us. It leaves you alone to make of it what you like.