Let your wandering fingers
Trek in these sands
And open up the vista
To the mystery of time.
You cast no nuts
Fling no cords
Ring no bells
Nor seek yesterlives
At the root of graveyard turf.
Vista atoms of practised
eyes, seen everywhere
Knowing the secret of
Every toe. Truths lie
Undressed and the riddle
of the marrow is cracked
Upon a grain of sooth.
Let the sparkle of these
Sands telescope enigmatic
Time and catch the bird on
Tomorrow’s tree.
which woman makes best wife
which profession makes richest
men, what to do or undo that
I may live till I please?
The future shrinks to eye-shot
As you sit there counting
Lots in grains of sand.
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