The in and out,
the heave and sigh—
we needn’t choose our breathing
but have it chosen for us.

Nor are these electricities,
the shocks that join us as synapse,
born of a volunteer spirit.

No. Such a thing as love
is cheated
by a grammar that fails to reflect
reflex.

For all our choosing and doing,
decisions and deeds we record
in private registers of pride,
we are arrested
by the joy that chooses us,
that predicts our covalency.

In spite of all our willful blunders,
our experimental chemistry,
the molecules of our own rude design
have failed their bonds
each time so
this one might prevail.

You are here. But you could be here or here. I mean, if you aren't too busy.