Now? Everything points to the now point.
There are no revelations in the joint
But what the curvatures of time anoint
Like ten fingers playing here’s the steeple
When inside there are no little people.
It is a lovely world after all,
When simple, not straight, no awkward bending
Of air, just the eagles’ mad descending,
And the cringing voles’ mute, terrified ball.
Then? A word for time with twined intention —
Then I was and what will I be by then?
Two words (not three) for all of duration
Lead us through the revolutions of arc,
Freely to the point of the question mark.
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