The hours behind the sun
stretch out to the curve of the universe
then turn an inverted trek
unto the shadowed earth,
the space heater long gone out.
Time cannot be heard in outer space.
Its needle tip flashes to prick the fringe of fabric
the patchwork quilt a chair-bound scientist wove with threads on a digitized loom—
warm, not living,
just unnatural electric heat.
the light from behind the dying suns of your eyes.
I try to keep mine closed,
but the fantastic realm where unreality lies
whirls with lids high or lowered.