On the Infinite Nature of the Universe
A model of new glass—this now clear
pebble chain of skies—nothing new comes
from this image, this reverie—
Or should I say the revolution of the old, the always there?
Like girls in paintings running across to hills
that end in the blue-white-yellow-
touch-of-red skies that say we end
by acknowledging this is as far as we know to go.
Giordano Bruno, in England, Englishless and full
of inconvenient and defiant Italian—
was brought down the Thames in anger,
arrived in anger, stayed in anger through dinners and disputations.
It is to not admit what we know to be true.
It is what can’t be proven, what is never among the random.
To stare upward and know is a great faith, worthy of drawing
the memorized and imagined sky. Worthy, too, of flames.
Tim Duffy is a poet and scholar working in New York City and Connecticut. His poems have appeared in The Cortland Review, the Eunoia Review, and the Lehigh Valley Vanguard. His work is forthcoming in Bop Dead City, Uppagus, The Indianola Review, Emerge Literary Journal, and Akistu Quarterly.