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.