Quasar       
 

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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