Dans la vie intérieure, le temps tient lieu d'espace.
(In the inner life, time takes the place of space.)
Simone Weil, La Pesanteur et la Grâce (Gravity and Grace)

Inside [the black hole's event horizon]… [what used to be a spatial
coordinate] is the time. … The singularity… is not a place in space; it
is a moment in time.
James B. Hartle, Gravity: An Introduction to Einstein's General Relativity

In my old poems I saw
the sentimental one
scenting sighs,    seeing scars
everywhere, twisting them
into words, arranging words
so they fit in a grid,
regular,    repeating.

Preoccupied, she wanted the answer
to the only question: What had made her
like this? An effect that sought the cause and
nothing else. Her city caught in a verdant
early summer day, light abounded; she
felt time had been running out silently.

How much has really changed ever since?

I now have an answer, and more.
She made me; cause, effect. Questions!
How will I be? What will I be?
What am I?

I am a tiny bit of what she wasn't:
the all-embracing space and time beyond
her self, her fear of being forgotten,
solitude unwitnessed, and pain futile.

I am not just her descendant either.
Holding her precious gift of exposed self,
I too am exposed to what I am not,
asking how much has changed, what I'm changing.

This is a new one I wrote today.

Edit: replaced one "the" with "an".