Days and Nights of Brahma
Once, I thought truth was tall,
nearly as tall as a man, and all but
invisible, nearly glass or water.
Now science tells me time’s
a silver spoon in a cold soup–
a theory that dominates the glow
of morning--, a ring of fire and ice,
the movement of the spheres,
the old logic of alpha and omega,
in a threadbare inheritance.
Now, they say, a vacuum’s not
empty but insane with sense.
I wait for Cern or Brookhaven
to split the last little something
of truth, for a blackhole to open.
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