Space

is mentioned in a conversation.

As in, “I need space.”
As in, “Give me space.”

As in the room will be expanding
to hold a continent
and incredibly powerful telescopes
will be needed to see
each other when we’re in
the same room.

As in voices
needing to build
to supervolcano
to be heard.

As in the stars
over there where
the television
used to be.

As in no air,
gamma rays,
asteroids
and absolute zero.

As in
how far away
other life
may be, if
it exists at all.

Ninety minutes into
a prairie, a desert,
an ocean.
Found
in the middle of each:
safety, a breach
in the routine protocols
of fear.  Out there,
it’s one fear all at once,
one fear of losing
oneself in such space —
such a relief from
daily death by small
cuts.

I can’t climb
so I stay away from mountains,
can’t fly
so I stay away from sky —

but I can plod
and I can drift
so I go ninety minutes
into a prairie, a desert,
a sea

and bask in One Fear
until all others
are lost, burned,
or drowned.