a martry for your science

as you tell ghost stories
i become fiction.

you speak life into worn names
and i find myself transcendental
(i am
the notion of molecules
the taste of water
the embryonic recall
the color of night)

without blink or breath or bleed i believe in that existence
and you, likewise, take faith
(in some overwrought theory)
(in some underread text)
that permits such conviction in absence,
such obsession with the blurred

strange how we should worship the absurdities that haunt us
but earnestly neglect the evident

flesh

with the fidelity of a heretic
embraced by blazing stake
still fuming about orbits and
waves of light