The ultimate dangers of time travel aren’t in particle displacement,
or of where you might be put back together,
the reconfiguring of the atoms in your hand
or even the reunion of who you thought you were,
but the real danger is in the falsehoods of your destination
The true danger for the tourist is in the hands of the locals
and her unbitten tongue.
It’s in visiting a flat world with a globe on your desk,
and your snickers being heard in the lecture hall.
It’s in going to a place where the sky is either black or white,
where inquisitions happen before a question,
because there is only an answer.
It’s the encompassing fog,
the weather of where you are,
which hunts for pre-motived absolution.
The danger is in being unable to not preach to penguins
about what other birds are doing in another place,
and not escaping the wrath of their water wings,
the only wings in the world.