Your world is round
only listing more terrifyingly
in our shared Sargasso sea
underneath your soundproof sky.
We rest our fingertips on the glass between
and pretend to twirl in tandem:
revolution forward, revolution back
like a cradled smothered infant
or the clapper of a bell
drowning in amniotic fluid.
Occasionally we exchange letters:
ours blank ink on black paper,
microfiction and nanopoems
skimming fat, draining blood, carving flesh,
hollowing deeper and narrower tunnels
into the heart of your not-Earth
We cannot hear each other;
we are too civilized to shout.
Words recede from paper shorelines
while your hills
honeycomb with catacombs
deeper and narrower
boxcutter blade to needlepoint
until your passages
shrink to picometers --
to pass through them,
you must leave your body behind.
cut cut cut cut cut