Is there a road over the horizon where
the past blows in, tasting so exquisite, that
only the ascetic moment knows, delighting
in these ragged remnants and the insight:
how tangled timelines lead to meristem now
sleeping in twiggy torpor.
Or is there a valve in that unseen distance
that though consistent histories impinge
now is prisoner on her moving trolley
sustained by oxygen and anaesthetic?
Meditation is a warm homeostasis; dream
does not believe in then and now, where
what's to come is always waking and
the dead know better than to worry.
