She said – you are my current, my three-pointed plug
Yet I am the wound flex; the wiring behind the walls is mine –
When I say ‘Halt!’ go no further; the wiring is dislocated from you
The very suggestion of a movement of current, a sense of desirability
Is itself physical.
You place shields of copper around yourself, hoping to oblige me
To build up the voltage to a point
Which my wiring-system and wall-covering cannot contain.
The build-up goes on; there are multiple redirections for the circuit –
All the world converges here – but if we try to merge,
We may plunge beneath everything we rely on.
You love me not, you love my pole – turn round;
Yes; one can see everything clearly earmarked in speech –
Polarised vowels and consonants – back to their predecessors
Or else pulled through eyeholes to their successors.