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
by a grammar that does not reflect
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 can predict our covalency.
In spite of all our willful blunders,
the molecules of our own rude design
have failed their bonds
that this one might prevail.