For Joel Cutrara
The Truth was there already to be true.—Auden, "The History of Truth" (1958?)
It came to me just now, dreaming,
that time’s arrow points to both ways
not merely on the subatomic level.
"Infinite" doesn't mean extremely
big, but endless; galaxies fly apart
unceasingly; past and future exist,
and we thus may rectify our errors,
future upgrading as past's amended
with unending, infinite regrets—
sort of like a self-cleaning oven.
Only the present doesn't change.
Think of it as an imaginary number,
say, the square root of minus n.
“Distinguishing between past, present,
and future's an illusion,” Einstein says.
Somewhere, Petronius Arbiter,
not awaiting Nero’s fatal sentence,
opens his veins, but binds them up
again and gets some needed rest,
so that in death, forced on him,
he will at least look natural!
Grinning, he writes his tell-all will,
blowing the gaff on the imperial court.
Magda Goebbels murders her children,
since the Red Army draws near.
Uncle Bill drawls to his wife by
the Wabash, “I was just funning, dear!”
Upstart Crow jots on a piece of paper:
“More an antique Roman than a Dane?"
"Good night, sweet Yogi. Flights
of shortstops sing thee to thy rest!"
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