Macabre musings on the mausoleum’s
stone-eyed inhabitants stuffed
with the magic of second life:
Oils, calabash of crystal plucked
from the caldera’s radiating grove,
symbiosis of fungal spore and mountain
fern chafed in the palms of resurrection,
while the dark side of Apollo’s pestle
pulverizes faith and hope in the elixir bowl.

Strange things happen when
you travel through wormholes.

Imagine waking from stasis alone,
floating in a petrified planet,
a 3-D photo where you can only
move inside the viscosity
of what should be material objects
like the old growth tree that crooks
and fluctuates within its boundary
of bark, rigid against vitrified air
you cannot penetrate. You could
burrow through burls of wood,
run tree rings, round and round
like a mouse on a wheel.