Public Republic

Kenneth Pobo

Photo: Per Ola Wiberg (Powi)

Boson, you transmit your force onto/
into me while the sky, seduced by
green land formations and big-bellied
mountains, tries to float away
but can’t–I often crave your force,

a red oriental poppy with a black center,
but I’m a boson too—you’re my balloon
and I’m the prick that breaks you. Oh,
inner fermion, your matter is my matter.
What’s the matter? Us. Plasma, sweat,

tissue. Happy Valentine’s Day. Take
a bite out of a theory. Wash it down
with a martini. Hear a toad tell
the grass blade closest to our mail box
how badly it wants a kiss.