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.
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.