Umbriate Press Poetry

I have been discussing you with misters Quine & Rorty, recently.

I am told that, as point of fact, you do not exist, as point of fact in itself, reliably & improvably.

Moreover, should you exist, you ought not to by virtue of the impossibility to articulate the meaningful proof that you do, inevitably, in actuality, exist separate from what you are as a notion in my head.

It saddens me to weep & to say, but you are not scientifically objective enough to merit entity status; therefore your wondrous nakedness, although my greatest thrill, is arbitrary, thus the nipple of your mountaintop is possibly just a jutting rock of breast in my mind only & of which the historical meaning erodes over time, indubitably & untouched, as a slight diversion toward the contingent qua misty overlay of free-floating signifiers.

Goodbye my Love,

Or

My assumption of Love