The Chain
A POEM
The chain that’s fixed to the throne of Jove,
One link dissolved, the whole creation ends.
— Edmund Waller
The first day of creation was its last.
“For in my end is my principio.”
So said the Queen of Scotland long ago,
And all the future’s chained inside the past.
The robe of Time’s the body of creation,
Whose soul, now trapped in bondage, is its Space.
The Fiat Lux engaged it in embrace
Despite its lengthy rage of lamentation.
The light of Time annihilates Freedom’s chance:
The freedom of the world and of each soul.
There’s nothing new beneath this big Black Hole
Which isn’t sucked in line to its fixed dance.
Creation ever bears its own disgrace:
This odd duality of Time and Space.
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Of what do they dream
— the white-robed monks?
while we
with half-shaped forms
from…
Around our March balcony tonight
Fog closes its slight hand — illusive blue —