Howard Firkin
Eleven minutes later things had changed.
Copernicus’ system was endorsed,
a whole new orthodoxy was enforced;
the galaxies of thought had rearranged.
Eleven minutes later, you’re not here.
It takes ten minutes to destroy the world.
I now have first hand evidence of that:
my blue-green sphere squashed absolutely flat;
you float off smiling, boyed, as I sink, girled.
Eleven minutes: everything is clear.

Time keeps its bony grip on every wrist
and bores you with its tedious confusion;
its acrid breath, raw vodka with a twist,
drunk arguing its way to one conclusion.