No tomorrow, and your shadow is dead

flat, aground and eternally moving

Egyptian eyes avoid your paradox

a hand to drag, a hand to grasp

now is suffered, managed, gone beyond

a look past filled with longing's sharp hooks

on and forward, to new baited beginnings

now the real is now, but dead to the bookends

buried under expectation and comparison

so stumble, sure, placing old tracks on new ground

to avoid the sole true moment

and be the new ones tomorrow

and the old ones yesterday

and all of them broken in ticks and tocks

goodbyes and hellos mingle

meaningless small talk

in the foyer of your museum.

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