By night I long for vacuum,
yet gravity ties my bones and blood,
wires me to the world, an unbreakable nexus.
I’d prefer a lighter planet, uncored by an iron seed.
We think alike, adversaries and friends,
harmonies of disdain and love,
characters in chiaroscuro,
quotidian actors reading quadrophonic lines.
On my phone, intermedial worlds—
the amplitude of life compressed
to flatness; paths are lines,
join the dots and draw an empty shape.
In the natural world of night
our beds ascend through surfaces,
cornice moldings, bricked and tiled frames,
to float above the dullness.
Now and then I see my mind,
its flickering luminance,
emergent wings that quiver
In the morning, particles with no
dimension, dust and pollen coats my lungs,
ashes of forgotten plans, highlights point by point
written in the margins of torn-out crumpled pages.
At times I think that it’s just me,
and you might think the same sometimes,
it’s just themselves.
The earth’s iron core gives us a handy magnetic field—compasses, longitude and latitude, GPS for finding coffee shops. As an added bonus, it protects us from devastating radiation.
artwork—before the day