I sat Indian style atop my bed
in a silent hush,
letting the natural blackness
take me to the next land,
to explore space’s furthest corners,
to seek out the knowledge to
stop nuclear war from plaguing the good lands
with the nomads and diseases.

I was an antique traveler from
an antique land, defying the forces of nature
with a snap of my bony fingers,
each joint popping at the fluidity
and the serendipity.

And the string was broken,
snapped by the Sisters of Fate
(you know, the ones who share the eye).
And I was gone again,
phasing in through those wormholes
that’re whisking me along my journey
through space,
like this darkness left
me here with.

My body cannot stop twitching,
can’t stop moving and feeling
for what a simple touch provides.
My toes are curling, hair standing
to attention on my arms
(why won’t you touch
me more, your unopen eyes scorching
the neurons of my brain).
Help.
The furthest corners of space are the
pupils in your eyes.
And I have gone where no (wo)man can return.