Give me a young rock star—cold-handed, paper-
skinned and with a stiff upper lip. Call me muse
or storyteller. I will offer sips of beer and my arm
against yours. Drink, and be much obliged.

Here is a black hole. The anti-matter and
Einstein’s spacetime bend and net about us.
Here is you: this spot on that continent. Spin
the globe in the spirit of manifest destiny
and tell me where to take you in the next
minutes or hours.

I collect voices, names, faces, the song that you
sing. I collect bones and cast yours onto my bed
of course—the dream bed, the sorting of memory
bed. The future, well, here I am and will be
or not be.

Just you stand, young man, your soft shoulders,
my old world hands, someone else’s guitar, your
angry tongue. Stand but do not stand. You will
find me again leaned in corners or darkened
spaces, darker still.