Paris to Mars
John Dandridge
You can’t
catch me yet,
because I
am so small.
You search round,
inside atoms,
underneath the sea,
from Paris to Mars.
But you’re cold,
getting colder.
Not even
close.
I can’t
catch you yet,
because I
am so small.
I follow
Buddha rumours,
get misled by Spanish whales.
If you’re buried under blankets
in the universe’s nursery,
I’ll search from Paris to Mars.
Am I warm, getting warmer?
Am I even
close?
You search across
40 acres and a moon,
from Paris to Mars.
Yet you’re cold, getting colder.
Not even
close.
I look inside
a pickpocket’s pocket,
then search from Paris to Mars.
Am I warm, getting warmer?
Am I even close?