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Wednesday, March 12, 2008

Event Horizons

Black Holes

A last evening's parasol had opened up
revealing a carousel of stars turning -
acting as if life had meaning,
we looked up into the
dark pockets of God's jacket,
arms fumbling, searching
to find the key to all things.

You listened as our souls hung
on the ledges of that final night,
while I spoke of leftovers
called black holes:
of giant stars gone wrong,
points of infinite density
collapsing in universal night,
generating regions of space
with gravity so strong
it even kills light.

What happens in these core
towns who can really know,
when all normal laws
of physics break down?

But I told you of some distance
from their centre where
a boundary exists just before
a point of no return:
an event horizon where
time stands still and
truth squirms on outer edges
of burned-marked places
that swallows all bright devices.

We looked in each other as
the space above us counselled
its dark denizens,
a cemetery of dead stars or
light dominions mourning
the funeral of a buried sun,
to sad songs of Orpheus
reaching our event horizon
where time's will broke,
and I spoke of the sky
to cloud our final goodbye.


The Lost Tunnel

An artery of this body
that none knew
not even the body;

a lost tunnel,
that none knows
not even echoes, empty;

this is where I hide you,
or hide from you,
stop to rest or go on for you.

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