Year after year each stitch in the binding  
Is ionized upon the calendar, unsewn  
And flung like photons in an endless trace  
Into the stream of galaxies that race  
At c-speed, where the anti-shallows groan  
And curve, where lines from ancient eyes are thrown  
And knotted. Unrifting such a place  
Reveals the glint of Alexanderís sword  
Beneath a Hellenistic sun. A thousand years:  
The Magnus weeps at Rolandís death. Aboard  
A runner to the twilight, as the ash-geared  
Maybe-mechanics of space are grinding,  
The snap of seconds pricks the mirroring sky,  
The heavens flex, the black stars burn and die.  

                                       Copyright © 1994 Alain Silver
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