Hour Ten: Connect the Dots
“Oh, don’t even try to connect the dots,”
he said.
It’s true.
The space inside and the one above
the cosmos of you and me,
no way to comprehend.
Particulate matter we are,
no less starburst than shredded skin,
chutes and ladders,
helix twist,
the cellular merry-go-round
that tells tales of why
you lie to me and I lie back.
We’ve grown accustomed to the fable.
New aliens and a nearby planetary commune,
where we respond in airwaves,
traveling to when the earth,
long gone up in flame,
reaches and touches
the vibrations they are.
He laughed when I said,
“Let’s have a drink and test the vibe.”
I meant it.
I, as matter, feel your integrity,
just as you feel my heat.
The light in me bows to the light in you.
A stuttering twinkling of time and we connect
the stars with fated fingers.
No body survives.