Time Alone

Consciousness becomes

you. Given enough time, you know

all stones and bones defossilize,

enliven, and grow

again, again, again, spiriting

in cycles too vast for theories to vault.

You verb

to hide the fact you’re doing

time alone,

and there’s no escape

but to dream that eons entwine,

infinitely packed without a care

for paradox or spacetime. Here, you stroke

the everbefore-and-after

with your little hours; here, you reach

the gods of everything.

Heat Death of the Universe

In the last throes of the heat death

of what was once a universe,

everything flies apart.

Your body undoes itself, gapes

as the galaxies expand, cool, and thin

to mere suggestions.

The cosmos becomes its own

homeopathic remedy,

while your mind dissolves into space

to inoculate

me against your memory.