The eye that spies the ends is blind to all beginnings. Behold the interim goal
Of travellers en route to respective vanishing points. Oh, the distant stations.
Occupied, souls espoused to the indicative,
to common motive, patrimony, emanations
Of the suns of their peculiar blessings in demise
mouth creation’s inner and outer wholes,
Divide the daily spoils, weights and ballasts
with blessings to them who bear it all:
“Tis a consummation” in fortitude “‘devoutly to be wished” *
at every turn about the stage with radiant acquiescence;
Seeing ten’s and multiples in terms of one’s and nothing’s, natural dissidents
For marking time with mercurial devotion,
schemes and schedules, all attend the call
Of Tiresias in the mornings of a hoary age that worships moonlight’s
Witnesses to lighting embers, they who are but never where they’re going.
Yes of course the hammer falls,
nocturnal sparks provide an impetus to groaning.
Who will ask for more? Burdens roam the night, the midnight rites
For teeth and tongue and pallet that rarely speak
but yield to winds that lift the veil
Of utterance in wondrous tongues
of worlds that must evolve and cannot fail.
* The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, Act 3 Scene 1, by William Shakespeare [1586-1616]. First Folio 162