Everything’s Limit

Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.

Sylvia Plath

The limit is indeterminate, a placid yellow untouchable egg,
translucent pond scum between us; I can only slide through,
by is abandonment, flower petals torn out to see how many
it takes to ensure every life is touched, shorn, by the hands 
which appear to be under cntrl - alt deletion backspaces
forward to erase another eye, winking across infinite
sentiences and pluralizing monoliths with the pencil
equivalent of a sledgehammer; donned, hatted, be
sotted by rain and let the wriggling elements
beneath the skin shower your sides with 
motion and light and wet -- desire is no
nature and artifice no grasp, hangdog
crooks keep their tails between their
legs to prepare to escape while
despair steals hope from the 
laws of repeated inquiry:
why sends idle bodies 
from the stars to not
another space saved
for not another
year's wishes
on the birth
day cake of
every
thing
ends.