When the dollhouses become our houses,

or the other way around, when “no” is a ring

around one planet or two or none, when eyes

blink in lava lamp light as though in a solar

flare, when breathing is more than a chest

pumped from remedial paramedics training,

when a tantric sojourn to self-enlightenment

powers up the ingenious puppet, when time

is an opaque decanter sloshing with liquid

that could freeze time or poison our kin,

when love may tear you limb from limb,

there is no hope without beginning or end.