Fit not

When things don’t quite fit 

and you realise they

must and you trust they really

can’t and you finally guess

you’re the reason why they

don’t, and there’s little you 

can do but accept the unfit 

and wait and see why

what you’ve been and 

done and gone and resouled 

relates precisely to

what doesn’t quite fit.

And in some unfaithful way,

maybe no relate exists.

Maybe nothing is there.

It’s random.

It’s physics.

It’s maths.

It’s just life.

And maybe that’s true.

And maybe it’s so.

But what if it wasn’t?

What if – in cool way – there 


some other

rhing, much

finer than languishing in

numbers of 

predictable bent

and curious hurt?

And what if our sex was the key 

to this finer?

And what if our love re-


us – like chattels suddenly 

unslaved –

from the 

puzzle of this

never quite fitting as we

should; from the puzzle of never

quite being loved?

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