Scratch for B-Sides

A liar speaks the truth. Trust me.
It’s dark out there. You need to know this stuff.
Every particle knows every other, position and momentum,
since that very First Charlie Brown Christmas Big Bang.
Don’t let that uncertain German snow you.

It’s cool, actually. Nothing but solipsism.
You. Carving yourself out of nothingness. Me.

And I can’t just give you my love, my love.
I have to watch it roll on edge, spinning tighter
and faster round the black hole it’s headed for,
until at last it’s just a levitating flash
a moment before it—winking—drops
apparently forever. But physicists know shit
poets don’t: postulate white holes,
which spit instead of swallow.

I stumble. You stumble. You hope I hope.
You fall, I’m lost: both spinning ellipses.
A penny’s a good as a quarter.
It doesn’t matter how much the coins are worth.
A Sacajawea no better/worse than a washer,
or a slug forged to fool the washing machine.

It’s the spin and the ellipses. It’s the arc
you trace and the flash and the drop.
I can’t describe why to you. No kid could.
A kid would say what I’m saying now:
Give me a nickel. I’ll show you. It’s cool.

Trust me.