each string is a dimension
and he's traversing them
fourth, fifth, ninth;
symphonies of light and color
with mathematical precision
that astronauts would envy
but he didn't sign up for space travel
and to touch the earth again would be like
being born a prodigy of mud and sky
you can see it on his face, flashing,
like the shooting stars his fingers so desperately pattern out
across the red wood, the color of home
so from dust he must try to create
a galaxy, when no man is a god