We live, not moment to moment,
but in a single eternal moment,
soft and unyielding, like splinters
of destiny,

songs in the heart of the universe,
unheard, unhummed,
but by the small almost still
vibration of unseeable things,

now real, now gone,
now magnified to deathless
breathlessness, beyond, finally,
all knowing.

One day, we’ll fly there on
wings of dying, spread ourselves
across the native sky
like phantom snow.