They say the Universe may be made of strings,
thirty-five zeros worth of minimalism vibrating away.
Closed and open. Splitting and combining.

Screwing my eyes shut until sunshine yellow bruises
float in my vision, I can almost see them pinned to my eyelids,
wriggling in perpetual motion, light-dazzled,
their minuteness encompassed in a vastness without an edge
that I can peer over. If the strings are right I may be as close as can be
to another dimension, yet infallibly separated, no way to bridge
that infinitessimally tiny gap.

I, and all I was and all I might ever hope to be are trapped
in the fifth dimension, with all our choices: made and yet to make;
no way beyond, no concept of escape so why fret and agonise
over second chances and fleeting opportunities?
If there is another time around I may even return as a tortoise
in which case you are certain to be a hare, and again we will sit
close as can be, yet infinitely far apart.