Deenaz P. Coachbuilder

The space that binds us.

I keep washing my hands,
20 seconds they say,
20 seconds of

From Wuhan to Milan
the breezes blow

invisible currents
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