Burnt Toast

There are physicists

who think the world

is invisible strings

I don’t know what that means

but when my friends make

music

with nylon strings

and pluck their way

deep into the secret compartments

of this basement

I carry on bones

I begin to understand John Muir

encouraged me to tug

and discover

that all is connected

and maybe that old Sierran

wild man

knew something the physicists

geologists

didn’t

were years from discovering

glacial valleys thought to be formed by

fault lines

were in fact

glacial valleys

there are strings

on my fingertips

and pulled back one at a time

then released they make patterns

that long for recognition

Thin ropes tether me to friends

in high places

who I trust with my life

and who willingly trust me with theirs

mycelium networking

under dead leaves

caps and stems

networking through pan

fried brains of friends

strings of smoke

stratified in wooden apartment

living room

connecting vinyl sofas

vinyl records

flannel blankets

and cigarettes

to moments of cookie jar

pet shit on floor

tried my best to clean it up

dishonesty

laughter and silence

there are physicists who

think the world is invisible

strings

but John and I know

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