Augustine

Some years ago, or yesterday,

I threw a book into the air,

a medium tome,

hard backed, gold edged and well bound.

I watched as it arced

slowly through each temporal cliché

from the dawn of time till Gabriel’s call,

becoming something new

within the changing quanta

of the universe.

I see it leave a fading rainbow

of trailing images

in the continuum that is the past.

As it twisted and splayed,

carrying its recorded magic

from one instant to the next,

I cannot tell if it stayed the same

or has such infinite existences

so as not to be at all.

Quite suddenly it is substance

in my hand once more,

its spine unbroken,

its future and its truth intact.

and from its pages beckoned

those meaningless words

once silently remembered

by the Holy Bishop of Hippo

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