Spatially Confused

I am            spatially confused
a special frustration of time and of place
wherein
                        here, or maybe there,
a length of ribbon, gauzy blue
            or black            in ink
slinks around the post-holes of the past
            I am lost in my             periphery
a riddle born in the imperfect
            perfected in the preterite
geographically inclined to find
                        the edge of every needle
            aligned            in perfection;
impassive,
            flashes of bulbs and of            atom bombs
and the glint of the sun on the rind of an apple,
blink like flecks of water            in the veins of the quill;
Ma'am or sir
            or Gods, as you may,
                        to whomever it concerns –
physically distant,
                        contemporaneous            to mind
I will make the trek
from muggy-brook
and the sands of the deserts at the pit of the hourglass
            up and through the hollow
past the chipped volcanic glass            gleaming dark from calloused hands
                        through the whir of steam and smoke
future-bound and            present-made,
                        happy to oblige to the whim
                                                of the writer