There’s a song in my figurative head
that I can’t shake loose.
When I was a body,
I did so many things with my hands,
I can’t count.
Around here it smells like lightning,
like plasma. Wind blows ionized particles
through my figurative hair.
A ship passed the other day
with a hundred souls aboard;
they slept so peacefully, I dared not
make a sound. When I was a body,
I rang like a smacked bell.
Here in hyperspace, I’m a thought
thrown against a ceiling fan.
This letter will be stuffed in a clay pot,
sucked through a vacuum tube,
delivered to your door.
image: Dorothy Chan
