Pointlessness

Tethered to a geometry,
that son-of-a-god figures angles,
co-ordinates points
that never belonged to the Universe.

And no, there ain't a parallel Universe either,
where Grammar and Geometry
could be trained to make love.

The locus of my love is his heart.

O, you son-of-a-god... 
                                   There are no orbits;
                                   only balls and fire.

Shall I draw you two concentric circles,
Sense and Sensibility
and shall I, when you square these shoulders
make a pretty point-
I am a collarbone, my love;
look at the pretty point, won't you?

Have you no balls or fire,
you who circumambulate these walls,
these absolute figurines of death?

The locus of my love is your heart, for god's sake!

I envy this moon that has been bitten blue.
What is a curve to you-
you who count the stars and size-up infinity?

Don't call it a triangle when you reply,
don't define it, please.
I am a womb, my love;
I'd outgrow this co-ordinate geometry.

Come to me when you're liquid
and I'll trace with your aid an orbit
on the plane of time.

Come to me,
when you're balls and fire.