Drive

I am alone,
I want to see you,
I close my eyes.
You emerge out of
vacuum.
A pair of virtual particles,
waver.
Photon tracks imprint
the edges of a black-hole
that sits in the center of a distant
dancing nebulous galaxy,
with spiraling arms, like a dancing Natraja

carved by the brown
leather-skinned hands,
calloused finger
tips
of a Muslim craftsmen,
His pittance-riddance life
engraved in the pink walls of Jaipur.

Eyes closed, I watch my life
unfold in the inner folds
of my retina,
conceived of empty space,
swirling of hydrogen,
helium,
and pristine stardust,
glowing, rotating

the pottery wheel of an
impoverished Kashmiri villager
whom I see as my father drives
a blue car, an Ambassador,
a technology warped and stuck in time.
I lie huddled in the backseat,
with her, my other half, my other life.
She adorning her plastic dolls,
with apples and peach,
I chewing on fat books.