t rasa
She concerns herself with symmetry,
of snowflake and tourmaline,
thrum of a mythic dance.
Her breath; a sonic intonation
of visions in a leaf.
He hangs out in foothill jumble,
turned sod, dust;
sees himself in stratigraphy of clays
while smoking ruts of war-wings
seer scars in his sky.
They meet in dotcom’s ether-chambers,
of unknown X and Y
ricocheted off satellites,
as refracted anti-matter
caught in nanotube and cache.
They touch, in shocked-quartz moments,
in cryo/pyro pools,
sip on virtual Chardonnay,
then dissolve in mud-pot pixelations;
brief collisions in a fossiled space.
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