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?