Hammock.

THE WORLD POEM

When the world-line converge

in the emptiness of sunlight

and causality thickens until

time stands still.

When you are

opened to contingency.

When you are so conscious that it skews

the balance of chance.

When the wind moves the leaves and

time slows.  When time is made up of infinite,

discrete graduations,

      stroboscopic quanta,

second by second,

smaller even

than that.

Then the world opens.

Then the world rings

with destiny

under the strange music

of fallen stars.

For eternity opens a divide so narrow

you cannot exist in it for the least portion of

a second.

And your schemes

must be drawn boldly

to pace the constant flux

of the world.  Never the same

from second to second.

For ever and never.

In the absolute theatre of time

everything happens

at once and the world is immanent

with continuous form.