Möbius Poets

	“I think in spirals; therefore, I am infinite.” – Maureen Seaton


and, while you say relationships, like life, are circular,
always finding their way to the same point
like how we keep meeting like this,
I tell you I don’t want to
make us the Daytona 500,
high speed and all left turns,
the smell of nitro that burns out 
our header pipes at over 300 mph 
with only one direction to go,
because I see us more like a Möbius strip,
where our path bends and turns,
two faces conjoined, 
becoming one sided, one faced,
an infinite loop, a twisted cylinder,
a paradox of a plane 
without end or length,
a three-dimensional space 
demonstrating a 2D effect,
that instead of circling a track,
we can take the scenic route
leaning into every switchback and hairpin 
on this figure-eight course,
letting us be hard-pressed to set
the cruise control below the limit
so we can just enjoy the ride,
forever obsessed with the smell
of summer rains beading off the asphalt
where the wild speaks to us in poems,
and we’ll dial up the radio to songs with bold voices 
to match our roaring hearts 
laughing like everything inside is still a secret 
we get to choose whether or not to tell, 
because I’m tired of revealing ourselves to one another 
with quiet restraints, so let’s drive 
to that place of uninterrupted space
where we finally breathe each other in,
exhaling our inhibitions,
giving up control of the wheel,
letting this vehicle take us to destinations
we’re fated to arrive in the backseat, 
seatbelts unfastened,
bodies entwined in our Möbius way  
humming tunes only we were meant to sing, 
where we’ll stumble into discoveries
knowing we can start and stop at any point
without a clear beginning
or a definitive end,
because the best relationships 
can pick right up where they left off,
continuing our story 
while a new tandem narrative runs parallel,
like our book that keeps filling with chapters,
while at times we’re a footnote in the back of a textbook 
as a 12 point serifed font, yet other times 
we’re a seventeen syllable haiku
that would make Bashō blush, yet may we never write
a guide to ourselves, not even a travelogue,
so we are always on this journey mapless, 
never taking our foot off the gas
but we can sometimes pause the rush 
and maybe we’ll become the poem while being the poets
who can rewrite this circular pattern
into a three-dimensional Möbius cylinder
that acts two-dimensional but is really 3-D,
almost a circle but for one crucial twist