under the sun, the clouds are
lucky to trace the scars of our bodies
cartography's last frontier
outsourced across alternate dimensions
superficial marks are not irrelevant,
I find nothing is.
Built from the original sands that beached Noah's ark
the same atoms in the ink of your tattoos
the electricity in the air between two stars
I am the alpha and the omega,
with open hands reaching out to the sky--no,
another kind of cry. Without you,
who am I?