String theorists say there are eleven dimensions
And possibly an infinite number of universes
Some could be parallel to ours
Like celebrity look-a-likes
Similar at first glance, but odd on closer inspection
I imagine different versions of me, or maybe I don’t exist in them
The math works, if you can follow it
11 dimensions—an infinity of universes
And none of it has anything to do with me
There is no air up there
Blood boils from the lack of gravity
As I live, Earth rotates as fast as a jet flies
But I cannot feel it
Our sister planets spin around the sun without our push—in their own track
There are more than a hundred billion stars—perhaps 500 billion
In our neighborhood, the Milky Way
And our house with its eight additions
And those last weird little add-ons is nothing special
Other homes in our neighborhood have additions too
More than 100 billion stars on our corner
At least 100 billion galaxies occupy our nation universe
A 1 with many zeroes behind it is the number of possible planets
And none of them have anything to do with me
I am made of the Earth
And the Earth is made of the stars
And the stars are made of other stars
Perhaps from matter born in other dimensions
It has been said that black holes are tunnels to other universes
And none of that has anything to do with me
I am human
There is no air up there for me to breathe
The universe is not for my use
