Time and Eternity

Here lies a temple —
no stairs, entryway, or door —
a place we have all gathered,
where we do gather
from the beginning. It is
a meadow of asphodel:
underworld, sun-world,
and the place of woven cliffs.
If only you could
perceive the bright agalma
time resolves itself to be,
forged from unity,
pulsing eternity bound,
the God who speaks with a voice
intense as pulsars,
you would tip your libation
jar made of space-time webbing
forged by Hêphaistos
in supernovae for all,
dip it deep in neutron star
matter whose mass not even
Atlas could lift up
or Heraklês break open.

You would pour it out
to this God who makes ler home
in each of your cells.
You would come to taste
decanted space-vast ichor
as the images
unfold out and up and down
as if all you hold
within vibrates, yet comes still —
lightless, illumined.

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