No-no, there’s no any now—not now, at least.
We drank that communion, ’twas nigh,
That nicety, that tiny leaning leaf
Of the old husky summer,
That is now seemingly spent.
Nine of us nagging for the immediacy
Of nearness.
And in the now we’re cannot be near,
As there is no us.
But then they come—past and future,
And in between them it is smashed,
And squeezed of the juice dry,
Though nothing is born neither perish,
Nevertheless this juice
Soaks through three things, thoroughly:
Us, the future, and the past,
And all three come to be
From the never-never
Because of this juice,
And of it.


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