My father suffers Moore's law in reverse;
His memory is halved each eighteen months.
The newer half dissolves; his universe
Falls inward, in blue-shifted Hubble Crunch.
He hurtles back in time as I shudder
Forward. Last week, rudely, I was unborn.
By next month he will have unmet Mother.
We live in opposite directions, shorn
Of common tense, diverging helplessly
Like two castaways in a tempest.
If memory is the true self, then he
Is melting alive; and, history erased,
What ghost will wander the grey gelatin,
Haunting the uncanny valley within?
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