the warp-drive drones inside the hand,
a flickering command.
a leap across the globe,
a star,
inside a glass rectangle.
there you are,
a protest,
then a pastry,
then a war,
a thousand pages,
maybe more.
the space expands,
the mind can't chart,
the distance between brain and heart.

and in the same breath,
a different screen,
a monotone voice,
polite and clean.
will you be having fries with that?
a transaction,
on a sterile mat.
the world shrinks to a paper sack,
a pre-cut,
measured,
hurried snack.

warp-drive and drive-through,
side-by-side,
the infinite expanse,
the shrunken ride.
we touch the cosmos,
yet we race,
to find a smaller,
faster place.

we swallow galaxies of light,
then hurry through the falling night.

the soul,
it seems,
can't find its size,
between the boundless and the minimized.
it stretches thin,
a spectral thread,
from what was done to what was said,
in the flicker of a passing headlight's glare;
the vastness and the void,
both there.

you always get what you wish for.