The chronophage swallows time, terrifying his appetite
My past, like Jonah, is consumed
But not dead
It sits in the belly of another being
Alive in a parallel place
And I am filled with dread
At the way life slips overboard, past my grip
Into a void which I can only visit through my imagination
So in the abstract I become a traveler
Crisscrossing through the vast seas of hours
Forwards, backwards, then circling the present
A chaos of invisible strings mapping my movement
Until I am all tangled up
A hostage of the interstices
In my stillness, I hear a patterned rhythm
Coming from some form of the living
Pounding on what sounds like a huge, hollow drum
Sending messages in S.O.S.
About the collapsibility
Of our purportedly fixed three dimensions
