I don’t believe in time. There's much more world left; So much more to learn, And I don’t believe in time. I believe in shadow birds flying Through the green of mown grass Under the squint-bright sun; An ocean dappled with clouds And the white sails of small boats Crossing my shoulder; A thousand dynamic blooms That I can’t name, speaking With voices of children And laughing as they pass; The reassuring chatter Of great wooden beasts That sermonize patience And continuity. But I don’t believe in time Or the limits it implies. I don’t believe in the failure Of the manifest soul. I don’t believe death will result From the cessation of habits That feed my blood, Because I won't believe In a future nothingness That I can’t see from here.
I have to stop hurting my mother. She does the best she knows how, In that walled-in life she leads, On that clockwise path she walks On a tether to her fictive ideals. We all have our ancestry, Who set the stones of posterity And hide from blame in their graves. They cast their shadows Long after they’re lost to the sun. I would like to believe it’s no chore To wriggle from under The thumbs of the dead. But I keep on hurting my mother, Though she did the best she knew how. I injure her with my distance, And my dismissive lack of concern. She bore three sons into this family And half of us are gone.
Dawn is in an hour; in a night. A light on the long street on the grey river, on a long walk of broken clays. It takes only a streetlight to bare the sighs, the yawn of dark alleys,
of quiet honesty; the great peace of telling without cause, without want. The arm stretches and guides the body; the body doubles its warmth. Laughter snaps against brick and glass, and the eyes combine; heart combines with heart. And dawn is in the hour,
in the night.