There are 807 Miles Between the Ordinary and Sublime

Too much sweet vanilla cream
in a cold brew, or simple syrup
in a craft cocktail, implies the bitter of the sublime
is sublimated, numbed by a honeyed something:

give me no saccharine panacea to blunt the ache of days,
and no ambrosial mist over the miles. It's immeasurable,
and deep, infinitely dividing.

Zeno knows the number:
of cells we've held between two hands
or shoulders or naked arms;
between the hum of a love
for words and the earthquake
of a nervous shaking leg;

the infinite divinity in seconds and spaces between parts
and heartbeats which approach, but never reach, one.