At the far end of the universe
Where space time curves back on itself,
There is a library.
In the library there is a woman
Sitting in a wheelchair,
Wearing a full black veil,
Listening to reports coming in
From the crab nebulae and all the far flung matter.
She makes notes and keeps them
In a knitting basket next to her chair
In case she needs them
Should all of time turn out to be a matter of interpretation.