Each one centering on some eternal truth,

The tip of my cigar is red with the primordial fire

Of red-shifted eternities, each one nascent and blossoming.

I take a puff, and exhale. The cloud goes east,

Then west in a gentle breeze. In a moment

I see the patterns of ancient firelight,

Borning galaxies and super-galaxies against the darkness

Of a red-shifted and unimaginably ancient vastness.

All forces come crashing down

All windows are broken

And every word that every man has spoken

Disappears in the gale

Of the End Of All Things.

20 Feb 2007

© 2007 Chuck Puckett