Spacing Out

Standing at the sink,
a thought microchips
its way into my head.

Of all the things –

all things –
all things –
things –

Baby Ficus reaches
with a human hand
attached to a human arm,
opens a door in the kitchen.

Blink –
and the tree vanishes
into a herbaceous cloud.

The plate in my hand slips,
and you would think
it would break,
but spins instead –
like a dreidel,
like a cymbal –
stops to crack,
an egg with a hollow core.

I step on a shard
but feel no pain.
A cerulean beam shoots
from my chest,
the sound effects
are a spacecraft landing.

The blueness sinks back
into my chest.

The sound disappears.
the plate disappears.
The apartment disappears.

Pure whiteness.
and in that whiteness,
a kid claps his hands,
then blink –
an old man
does jazz hands.

Blink –
and…