We pass from water to air through
the pause, before the go, a cusp.
Then, a channel to the open world,
like the cracking of a nut,
and timeless starts counting.
But what about “before”?
We move, I‘ll say it again, nowhere, from less than,
to, perfect zero, and then relentless, un-mattering
counting: moments, the days. Each counting,
a reminder of our separateness: this day then that;
this moment, not that.
It would be too much, the crushing loneliness, but for
the reminders, like you son, that we pass not from
the day to night; we live and move from light