The space that binds us.
I keep washing my hands,
20 seconds they say,
20 seconds of
eternity.
From Wuhan to Milan
the breezes blow
invisible currents
connecting
microbes and mortals.
Safe at home, I convince myself,
lulled in the backyard patio
gazing at the remote
San Bernardino mountains
80 miles afar
yet closer than an eyelid’s flash.
This is the place where my soul strings loosen.
They float among double delight roses
sweep over decomposed granite walkways,
swoop, encircle,
then streaming out over caverns remote
for I am everywhere
and nowhere,
shedding bits of flesh I never owned,
retaining merely essence
the space between
an illusion
for there is no space
between us,
spiritual brethren
all.
Inlandia: A Literary Journey 