Past Not Yet Past

If there are waves out there
That have no points, are bare,

Not a quant in the joint—
As there are, if Bohm’s right,

And may be, if he’s wrong—
Then why not think of them

As the past not yet past,
As what lies past our ends,

As the true saints, true gods,
True signs our signs dream of?

Think of it! Waves on waves,
Each with no point to it,

No light in it, no wet,
No sign—the sea, the loom

Of all our lives and dreams,
Null set, but with a dance

To it—no edge, no knots,
One warp and weft all waves—

On which we’re stretched to lie
Down all our lived, long days.