Hypertachygraphia

Stars write so fast, they seem to stand
Still—long chains of locked dots and gaps

That are raging and motionless
And coding the cosmos in skeins—

Necklaces, strings of eggs, star spawn
Writing fast enough to create

What they’re writing, but depending,
Like any tachygraphist,

On elision and compression,
On much more massive scales for them—

Perhaps you can’t read their meanings
Since you can’t extract the context.