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,
only a magicianís revealed secret,
for the days are truly nameless.