Space time. Whole minutes, days. Slash pauses.  
Totally never-in, our keyless Platonism won’t stand up as practice /  
not while angles of light are brawling over taking us home.  
Vaccinated, a merciless itch, what is this collapsed satori we travel into?   
 
Passing though with amazement the X+1 “casting  
of cities,” thinking past us, pressing against me.