Day and Night Birthed All Our Hours

Our fields, our ghosts, our war zones,
Our clocks and gods, the drawn-out

Dreams that we could learn to count,
Yang and Yin, the one from none—

All start from that pulse, that spin.
Day. Night. Day. And then. And then.

The whole of life blinks in them,
What grows, wastes, wanes, and is gone.

But what’s this tip of a vine,
This weed that pokes at the night,

That glows in the dark, that flies
Through the gates of dusk and dawn

Then sails on? There were two states
To the whole, the one and none,

But one with none is not one,
Nor two, nor three, nor yet none.

I lie on my back in the grass
When night drops day’s first pale hints,

And the lights that wheel and rush
To get to the end of this

Touch the far foam of their waves
To the shores of my small mind.

There are no hours. What we count
Won’t come back to us. Not once.