Although we count on space and time
To honour all that is sublime
And use oblivion to punish art
That makes no difference to the heart,
The time a writer needs to last —
The synapse-leaping flash — is fast.
And space is tiny; we can find
A universe inside the mind.

It’s with these smallest measures we
Decide the fate of what we see.
The generations come apace
But each must choose its time and space.

Originally posted on Making Light