Imagine an ant, you say
      as we eat sandwiches
at the table, windows already December
      dark. Imagine it at the end
of this placemat, the way it
      would look out over warp
and weft and see an eternity—

      its insect brain unable
to untangle each ridge of weave
      or envision an end. You
brush crumbs off the brown fabric
      square, which is now
space-time, and fold it so its edges
      touch. We watch

the invisible ant step from end
      to end. Then you let go,
and the cloth sprawls open.
      Younger sibling of physics
and logic, of the universe mapped
      out in ten dimensions,
you say that this is how we might
      move faster than light, say
did you know black holes
      would sound like static
between radio stations if we
      could hear them? You

explain that scientists saw matter
      squared and knew it could be
negative, anti, ready to annihilate,
      its other. Is there easy
math for the world—
      casually violent, reeling
up on the TV in the coffee shop,
      scrolled over, regular
enough to warrant the usual how
      did we let this happen? Alone
in my new city, I often feel far
      away from everything,
a soft pang stuck somewhere
      in the back of my throat
like the throb of prodding burnt
      skin with my tongue. Tell me
again that darkness hums

      static while it drinks fistfuls
of light. Say there’s evidence
      that we might pass over
fields of life woven too wide
      to cross. And, when we can’t
move, who is it that bends
      to fold up the space beneath us?