Sometimes they would hurl a voice at you
And you would try to fix it like a pinned butterfly,
You knew it was a muscular game,
Which could surprise like a bend in a river.
Now you fly kilometres
Over forest and tundra,
Stopping occasionally by a log cabin,
Drinking chai with the natives,
As fumes plume the air
And your face white tingles.
Your research proved
There were moments, captured and
Gathered like crushed ice,
Tunnelling into the outermost parts
Of the universe.
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