The curvatures of time and space
suggest no suffering.
“Event Horizon” has a lovely
an afternoon’s free-fall, that’s all,
in towards the core
the densities of which may tell you
what your life was for.
There are, of course, some weeks of pain,
pausing at the rim:
those wayward storeys of cement
you did your parking in;
or, likewise, nosing home alone
inside your little car,
that strange ten seconds wiping out
the who-and-where you are.
At Coles, increasingly, your trolley’s
stalled between the aisles;
you miss the milk but not the youthful
The world’s become centripetal;
you’re entering the spin;
each day’s a sort of anaesthetic
needle going in.
The family is clustering;
they’ll circle here for years;
way on past the day when you
saw meaning in their tears.