Between Singularity and Singularity,
between dawn and dusk, between
errand and meeting, between
dream and nightmare there is
the flicker of free time, the choice
to write sonnet or free verse, to carry
or be carried away by burdens, by joy.
But the passing moment passes, time
snuffs out time: so I decree that my
tombstone be an unfinished thought,
a civilization in ruin, a scribble in dust
carried off by a wind long-since died-
down, its own epitaph legible only
to the particles still flitting to and fro,
dancing to the music I wrote as if it
wouldn’t end like this, desolate, beautiful,
the scorched earth still warm enough
to lie down in, to make love in, to sleep in.