time passes
more slowly
when we are in motion
than when we are at rest:
in the lazing heat of the summer afternoon,
the pupil of your eye dilates
like some otherworldly sun,
in the diorama of our roving eyes;
If we are but masses sailing at different speeds,
love is like the final quanta of dying stars
sucking into themselves, into
the shadows of their old glory
in the ever expanding universe,
a pulse of light shrinking into the dark of its cocoon, recombining anew.
