Worm Hole

Galaxy travel on the head
of a pin, getting from here to there
in the tiniest fraction of a second,

why the hurry, Old Man 
with twisty knickers, can you name
the colors of a black hole?

God's hand on the crown of my head,
eight-millimeter film broadcast
on a bedsheet tied to a curtain rod

in a vacant room down the hall
where ghosts in rocking chairs
moan their pleasure into paper bags.

Veins pop under plastic tubing, 
all the better
to bite you with, my dear. 

Ventilators whirring, the great ship
loads, embarking at zero dark zero,  
suspension of all disbelief,

journey of a lifetime,
riding the worm
through to the other end. 


(First published in One Strange Day - 2026)