When they call me, if they call me, they will
call me a skein of floss which makes me feel
quite Nordic, maybe Scottish but I am not,
I am other than those, as they too are other
than Nordic, Celtic, Scottish, even Gallic.
I circumnavigate myself over again and over
again, entwined, twisted and twirled.
Their rotund generosity is oft comforting.
They can be prickly at times and acute,
acerbic even, but they can also be smooth
and swift, engaging and succinct, easily
graspable, clutchable. I see their orifices
and they too observe my warped and
wrappedness, ready to engage and invite
me in. I enter, silently, stealthily, calmly.
We peruse our plane and decide where to
inject ourselves and judge our distance as
near or far or inbetween, invariably opting
for, plumping for, betwixt edge and origin.
Diving down in air, we arise through cloth,
breaking the surface, narwhal like, proud
but halting, waiting to be swathed in our
tall tails, caressed by our length and silky
smoothness before returning to the deep.
And so we continue, my loved one and I,
interlinked and interlinking the edges of
our realm, creating three-sided squares of
edges upon edges whilst edging and
containing ends of ends, rendering them
endless for as long as we are endless, for
there lies the end of our existence and
duty. We have created the non-seam of
more, reducing the observed superfluous
materiality of the material we conjoin.