Hawking

with the nearest star filling his eyes with magnificent light,

Stephen Hawking knew it would be impossible to talk
in a half-hearted way 

and so he perceptively
continued exploring the universe 

which was found
spinning on his shoulders.

i understood it was his universe, but i kept looking at my own shoulders
while shifting my eyes left and right.

i discovered there was little to be learned by studying his face,
or listening to the inflections in his curiously
artificial voice, 

but nonetheless, he struck me as brilliant in the manner of Cousteau.

while in his presence, i found myself
directed to a well-regarded book which he recently added to
his collection.  

he encouraged me to read it.

and so i learned that all my last moments were streaming
into eternity.  

i wanted to visit them,

but he reminded me i was already here and there.

time, he said, was bursting into shards of exploding star particles,

and from any room

in any location, 

this expansion of speeding nature

broke human rules 

which hadn't yet been formulated.

as Stephen talked about infinity, he smiled his smile, 

his words dancing on
faint breaths of air,

moist nouns and trembling verbs racing 

beyond the hard, high rock towers of
nearby Stonehenge.

i began motioning with my hands, rearranging tiny pebbles of time.

and i stretched, and found my own voice, 

although i never saw a genuine Deity, 

even
though
i did hear
Stephen,

in his special chair, 

hair unkept, humming a tune,

perfectly in rhythm with a passing butterfly.