Today I met the universe
at a wobbly table I never finished painting
with tea growing tepid and a pile of tissues
catering to a small inflammation that vacations
in the squashy recesses of the body
and also bewitches the weight of my arms

having nothing better to do, I test it
like a four-year-old
stretching one hand and then the other
out into the room, feeling
for molecules
as I palm the atmosphere in arcs
with added gravity, the press of hydrogen atoms
like a first-time visit, unwell but marveling

the certain magic of a head-cold
to revert one’s years,
a small and petulant human who can suddenly
feel space against her drifting fingers, who thus pressing
gently with eyes shut encounters
a thin wrinkle, a ruffled slender thickness in the air,
a place of curve, suspended flight, a seamless
congregation of universe’s fragments that greets her
willingly –
and is shocked to find that previously
she would have passed it hardly recognizing
even its family name: