By David Lipowski

            i seek the

            sweet

            nectar

            of a

theoretical
Universe.
As it were,

you are
the bulbous
worm,
squirming
through my
apple on
an Otherwise
perfect day
in the
orchard

awakening from
dreams,
emerging from
the conceptual
landscape
painted on the
inside of my
skull,

i try to
remember
what
i have
just
seen,

lest it be
lost to me
for eternity