Her Sun's Chair

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Her Sun’s Chair
By Graham Burchell

It is not clear that intelligence has any long-term survival value.
--Stephen Hawking

He is in his winged chair
a plane grounded by gravity
striped like tropic cat

he has a bowl of ice cream
and a glass of wine
Charlotte the dog star
is asleep on the sofa
almost fur-coated in canine stupor

air-conditioned space stretches without time
to the windows and strange infinity
that ignores trees
formless clouds
sharp starvation of breath
then consuming emptiness

it is that time
flies are back
coming in secret
black from black spaces
to pollute the rims of bowl and glass
with smearing fecal feet