Grasp of Eternity

Time wags like the tail of a happy dog ever at search for his master, always neat, from here to the ends of the universe. This moment came when light tired, of this arrangement, this syzygy of him and me and the still threat of a small red star standing some time away at my back, deeper than a grain of memory. I am a quarter mile from my father, hard upward on this rugged rock of Earth he look up to if only his eyes agree once more, and it's a trillion years behind my head or a parsec I can't begin to imagine, they tell me even dead perhaps, this star. Can this be a true syzygy if one is dead, if one is leaning to leave this line of sight regardless of age or love or density or how the last piece of light might be reflected, or refused, if one leaves this mere imposition. The windows of my father's room defer no light to this night, for it is always night there, blood and chemicals at warfare, nerve gone, the main one providing mirror and lethal lens, back of the eyeball no different than out front, but I climb this Earth rock to line up with another rock and him in the deep seizure of that stolen room, bare sepulcher, that grotto of mind.