If Dyson’s ship were to pass through
a black hole’s event horizon,
its image would appear to
a distant observer to slow
and then to stop, to pause
at the edge of some margin, to lag,
to steadily shift to red over time,
to carmine silhouetted against
the empty and incapable space.
Slowly it would fade, forfeiting
its information to a shadow,
to translucence, imperceptibly
into this border, would belong less
to itself but to what would
captivate it, shake it from its
breadth of memoir enfoldingly.