In the argot of physicists it meant changing your place.
I am not a physicist, and I do not believe in place.
There never was a space, no spacetime, only change. The room was loud
With the wall unit roaring to life over and over all night.
I dreamed and then dreamed that I dreamed,
And then dreamed that I was annoyed by the idiocy
And irrelevance of all my dreaming. But how could I find them
Irrelevant, to what? If this universal heap of sweepings
Must always have been moving in all measures, and it was,
Like the ever-changing light outside my room,
Like forever redacted stories about bright suns and dark suns,
Gods and explosions and angels and black holes
Decorating the day and the night, never once in their place,
Then in reference to what, exactly, were my dreams
Irrelevant or not? I sat at my dining table
At the end of the day, my table, my day, the blue
On blue on blue desert sky rhyming
With previous cloudless passages I'd known,
And sensed the lamp light at my back creeping up
On me, predatory. It seems I had been through
Yet another sequence accelerating my rate
Of translation, this time from mountaintop to canyon floor,
The automatic hotel heater roared. I had left the window ajar all night.
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