Facing It

Like looking straight up at falling
Snow, if the flakes were made of light—

And how few photons are there left
From those most red-shifted, lensed blurs?

One photon emitted from bursts
Released when gravity bit down—

Bring it in, bring it in—arrives
In the middle of the far-off

Face of time. Here you are, staring
From that other face of time. Catch.