There's a level of oddity I'm accustomed to,
A strangeness and charm so deep-seeded
I think I may be all quark.
And all the subatomic satellites are ricocheting hard,
Running marathons in the very flesh they make up.

It gets confusing.

So, if my body be a temple,
Let it pray to the gods of puzzlement,
Who push us into labyrinthine months and trick clock days,
Where Dada and Dali and Escher and Carroll
Are grilling up burgers and talking shop.

It gets confusing.

And then there's this,
An unnameable state of being that I have crafted with you,
A person of immeasurable necessity to me,
You, the passenger and driver all in one
On a car ride I didn't know I was even taking.

It gets confusing.

It gets me a lot of things, actually--
And if I am to be frank, as poets rarely are,
The confusion I'm thrumming with is thrilling.
I don't know what we are, but I know this--
It's better not to know, than to not know you.