continuity

For the days to have no name

without season or number or manís mark,

But simply another drifting entity,

the latest in a stack of dead millions.

This would bring time to its essence,

without the mindís molestation,

slipping by as honey,

thick as the air you see.

I become a buoyant walnut in the ceaseless tranquility

making no wake,

but moving at the speed of Ether.

The space between objects is

a farcical memory of childhood,

and the space between months,

days,

decades,

millennia,

only a magicianís revealed secret,

for the days are truly nameless.

 

13MAR2002