Maybe I am writing this              to get you             to stop

pursuing me,      my little vampire bunny—      & maybe   
                              these questions aren’t meant        to be

                              solved.             Maybe they are playing        
               you & me                              like a fork a little too sharply

               tuned.               Is the true               nature of dark energy.  
                              Being a little off               is the right kind

                              of beacon.                                For eternity. 
                                             Owes everything               to lust,
                                                            the cruelest kind

                                                                           of swelling that cannot release {release}    
                              & will always cost

                                             any kind of future

                                                            {worth remembering}. 
               Maybe I am. Writing this for you, my sweet, sweet.

               But I’m lost. In a bigger thicket of grit          & greed
                              wanting more        of itself,        just a second longer?     Do you ever think 
                                             that’s why you’re always hungry. 	   & those love bites          aren’t so

                                             tender.	     & whatever.          Force drives you      {to spring upon me}
                                                            doesn’t yet exist. 	      It’s

                                                            okay. 	 To say well, nothing    	   
                                                            would change 	      ::you::      {would still.     Love me. }     I don’t

                                                            mind, 		the attempts        to fertilize               immortality.  
                                                            But does perfect pitch lead anywhere   	&     beyond {closing

                                                            a circle}?	  Like tying intricate   knot             without purpose?     
But go on. & anyway. Bind               my legs & arms               in your infinite               & immaculate

vampire bunny       charms. & gravity       of desire.                   Isn’t an eternal light          left alone 
                              in perfection	      a life gone         stale.            I’m betting & only on

                              defects. & kinks.       As what moves anything.      Forward.        No,
                                             it’s not light. Or reaching.

                                                            Apex— not the kind of animal

                                                                           you pretend 	to reconcile.

                                                                                          I know the living dead are real.
                                             Every time you kill me.

                                                            To prove my protons

                                                                           Are. Fundamentally stable. Talk is cheap.

                                                                                          As it is small. I’d rather take {chance} & get 
                                                            gnawed. & chewed & chomped

                                                            & become delicious & seduced

                                                            as. Evolution. 	 Is.      Seriously
                                                            screwed.           Since questions

                                                            seek {out} their own

                                                            silencing. 
                                                            Is that why you bite me {dead},

                                                            my little bunny— to turn us

                                                            into peculiar

                                                            velocity?
                                                            Your quantum features seeking    my gravity. & maybe

                                                            infinitely        cottontail & fangs          getting caught on 
                                                            doorways 	       because dark energy says we          shouldn’t?

                                                            What multiplies when yet still. I arise    from torn fur & nails 
                                                            digging? Maybe it were.    Big Bounce more than.     Big Bang.  
                                                            Maybe dry veins

                                                            nibble. & one more night

                                                            we’re still bloody peas.

                                                            & quarks.

                                                            & maybe it’s not important.

                                                            To the Theory of Everything, 	   
                              but even after they come for you,
                                             I keep & keep. Seeing. & everywhere,

                                             my sweet little bloodsucking.

                                             How you appear, suddenly,

                                             on trains  	
                                             popping out of cat carriers & staring

                                             from screened windowsill.

                                             Is that not you purring
                                             at the diner when they serve you up medium-

                                             rare on gilded plate. 	Skunned & still

                                             bloody. Steam

                                             rising 
                                             from the toothpick they speared

                                             into your twitching,

                                             cold heart

                                             & I tear 
                                             onto, my tears like the problem

                                             of {capital T} Theory & my ears

                                             like {capital E} Everything.      Is 
                                                            it all over the moment

                                                                           one gets just close enough

                                                                                          to what is Ultimate

                                                                                                                        & Final—
                                             is that when Everything is proven. Fatal. 	Because such proximity

                                                            does not lead to anything more

                                                                           than little vampire bunnies

                                                                                          who were just as human

                                                                                                         as the last question

                                                                                                                        I will eat from my own

                                                                                                                                       swollen & stained lips.