They can because they think they can. Virgil
You name several things, from a list that says—“Over”. Quietly, slowly, each one pulled from the clingy green moss culled from a black mirrored lagoon. We talk on the phone, you-boarding a plane, me- driving 72mph southeast across the desert. Two time-zones between us. Functionally connected, we map a soundweb of present tenses. Strangers mingle all around- you apologize. To whom, no one knows. Fiber optics, now buried beneath sand and shale, split your words down a ravine. All the way to Yuma. Overture in Aorta minor. “But there is more”, you say, forgetting the package you just detonated. You want to explain more- later. Yes, I acquiesce. Driving numb through a blond cholla forest, ocotillo waving on the outer rim. A blue border of mountains protecting me from anything bad ahead, friends bantering in the backseat. Space permeates. But here in the desert, I get more. And So I take it. All of it. Down. Deep as my last breath. Down to the bottom of the cavern. And back. Space surrounds. Mine is succulent, yours stratospheric.
From: Experiments in Prose.
Poem by Tara Linda. Copyright 2010.