Depraved of air,
we were the very last to leave this soil
now scorched. Our numbers drawn, exchanged
for boarding cards; uniquely registered
we were tattooed with its conductive ink,
we were scanned and shaved, deloused
and housed in quarantine; Short of breath
in preparation of acceptance of our past.
In front of us it waited, shining orb
the time-machine; a concrete jetty touched
its silver hull. We waited silently to leave
this suffocating years, to leave damnation
of destruction, this year of two-thousand-
eighty-nine; Inside our bell-jar oxygened
we waited for synchronicity of space.
Above my head, displayed, the woods
our destiny of past. “We’ll cope”, your voice
a needle falling to the floor; activation
through my veins the last of blood
were filtered, sated with our past, we were
prepared your head was bent, and
through the mask your eyes, unkempt
where whites, my hand reached out and almost
touching yours I fell asleep, and woke
again today, where future is our past.
In Nineteen eighty-eight we’re not yet
depraved of air.
Today we do time-travel at toads with Kerry. My choice was some Sci-Fi of time-travelers coming back to a time that was more habitable-
December 18, 2015