Wormholes. Yeah. That's the Ticket.

   19990217.1658

Press'd between the pages of time
The bookworms move fro and back
Leaving the usual holes in causality
Only to scamper (Do worms scamper?)
When the book is opened, shewing
The page to the spastic light of memory

Whose fault is it that time-space
Is worm-eaten? My memory-vision
Is perfect -- I can see from here how
Whole pages have been eaten loose
From the stitching by the chronophagic
Nematodes.

Okay, there's a page that I folded in half
To protect it from prying eyes, but, hey,
It's my damn journal. I can do that.

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