a poem

Now
They’re saying that the Universe
Is not accelerating. Rather,
Time slows down.

One
Day it will unfold completely
And freeze. Into one image
Of nowhen.

What,
If anything, does this mean?
And who will be there to
See the end?

Are
We wrong in our forethought?
Or in our being, tied as it
Is to time?

Take
This moment, and this – vague
As it is – an illusion between
Timelessness.

How
Strange then: from an unreal
World issues thought of its own
Final end.

Like
A solution to a riddle nobody
Posed, whispered in darkness
To no one.

Back
Here, in this timeful present
Not just our thoughts are
Unfinished.

Look
And look again, the world
Blurs, and blurred shimmers
Noisily.

Things
Too, unequal to themselves
No longer solid in their
Appearance

Would
Run together like water,
But for those translucent cups –
Words – which

Give
Back the night its disquiet
And fill time to the brim
With this Now.

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