The Best of Science Fiction 12

WHEN I FIRST READ THE THEORY

OF THE BLUE GALAXIES, I THOUGHT

The undulating universe

is like a belly-dancer's belly:

expanding till the skin is taut

then caving into ribs and groin.

I can scarcely comprehend

when she began and when she'll end,

I am so taken up with how

she does the hully-gully.

BUT AFTER DUE CONSIDERATION

OF THE MATTER, I SAID

To stand shock-still, examining

how flexible her stomach is,

does not become me. I resolve

myself to misbehave, rejoin

my tipsy table totallers,

compute and prophesise,

regard and analyse

and do the universal swing.

AND WHEN ALL WAS SAID AND DONE, I WROTE

It doesn't work. The telescope

is not my eye; those trickling years

of light are not my years; I once

saw pictures of the moon close-up

and prayed for cheese. I wished

I hadn't rested on my woman's belly,

inhaled, exhaled, keeping time,

and seen her lovely skin grow pores.