Isnít it the space between the notes
that makes the music, and the room
between the letters that turns
the alphabet into words?
Our front teeth decree the space
between as rest stops just for whistling
the way our hands share finger space
for rings and string Ö and look
at books! Around the edges of the pages
is space where numbers coalesce
in solemn contemplation
like unexpected guests,
and when we barefoot on the beach
upending rocks and holes and logs
how to stash the scattered sand
without the space between our toes?
so why do ponderings of scientific men
ó the ifs and thens they cogitate ó
imply there is no space if there is no stuff
as though they owned it?
islands brushing, wrinkles mingling, clouds
gridlocked below heaven
I have a memory of a face. Donít touch.
It keeps my universe in place.