Above Montana, bushfire memory:
badlands, sodbusters, black hats.
It’s all black now, high high above
an archipelago of cinders, scattered
prairie constellations, inverted heavens.
A single dot of light, a fallen star,
pulses on the giant wing,
keeping me up, untouchable.
You are as out of reach, half-way
across a planet.
In my theory, distance shrinks and curls to nothing.
In my theory, I am entangled, separate but imprinted
for once having been together.
The treble-7 hastens towards its distant place,
thoughts crackling, whispering delta lima tango.
Gravity’s beaten. Other forces shiver.
Our strings search for a unified theory: