Lightyears

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Lightyears

When you pull
the
trigger

on a poem,
you
release

a bullet of
light
that reaches

its own term-
minal
velocity with

no end or
stop-
ing in sight.

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Einstein’s Cross

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Einstein’s Cross

When we see light
9 billion
years old, lensed

by gravity into
four
distinct images,

what do we think
of
ourselves? Super-

novas are a thing,
quad-
furcation happens,

time itself branches
round
galaxies and arrives

when we are 2, 42,
52,
and God only knows

how old. You, dear
star,
hold me toddling,

writing, working,
tottering,
and sliding toward

the bright, still
Waterloo
of my sure decline.