Hooke’s Law (A Prose-Poem)
They say affection is clay and with my potter’s hands, I shall forge a miniature stool for you to sit on, while I am away in wait, for the days that don’t collapse into hours that render themselves into minutes minutes that trend counting seconds seconds that bite instead of ticking time is not elastic like my underpants bought off a Brooklyn street store no love is not elastic, does not obey Hooke’s law. I tried to measure the distance between devotion and practice; I split hairs trying to catch a speck of faith, a grain. I tried to conquer passion by wiping window panes clean of mist. I buried angst and temptation in shallow graves with no epitaphs. They say affection is clay and kids always muddy their fingers.