The hypercube that’s called a tesseract
cannot exist within our space dimensions.
It floats imaginary and exact,
an edifice of logical extensions
that I can neither build nor draw nor see,
nor picture in the certainty of prose,
nor capture in the bars of poetry,
but I can hold the image no one knows:

I can wrap my mind around that shape,
and enter it to sample and explore.
I can use its windows to escape
or let its lines illuminate a door
to passages that beggar all description,
and wisdom just beyond our definition.



Abnormal cells divide and reproduce,
without a mark that signifies an end.
They multiply amok in mad abuse
mitotic grown chaotic, and so bend
ideas of potent immortality,
they take the twisted shape appropriate
to teeming hideous calamity,
like maggots convoluting in a pit.

How many minds have sought an end to death?
How many scientists, philosophers
and prophets, too, have spoken like it’s good
to live forever, always drawing breath
and with that always growing? Now the curse
of cancer shows us death best understood.



The mitochondria inside of us
give scientists the nature of our mom.
It’s Eve in Africa they study, plus
they mined analysis and found a bomb:
The mitochondria within each cell?
are really separate creatures – aliens
that co-exist and co-evolve; we tell
each other how to live, our origins

I lodge that symbiote,
and wonder what the number may comprise
including dreamfolk, or the spark that wrote
this poem, or solving only using eyes.
I get it: I’m a colony at large,
and though I can’t control, I’m yet in charge.