The sound of time is the sound of light,
so the morning sun would seem to say;
but now, when it’s either soon or late,
is silent, dark, when any shade of gray.
Infancy (now in its shroud of amnesia)
saw a thing as it was there to hear
with ecstatic nerves of synesthesia,
or like a planet without an atmosphere,
naked to the bombardment of the stars,
spun through space. That memory, stored
in our synapses, fights a prolonged war
to glimpse what our mind has barred;
a light the color and the sound of time
we know is not a product of the mind.