If, then, time is only an illusion--
If it is some convenient contrivance,
a latticework
to shape our viney stories and
the tendrils of our thoughts--
If a moment is not a bead on a string of beads
captured,
jailed inside the walls of a ticking clock,
a particular slant of sun,
or heartbeat--
If a moment must be lashed to place
to make it real, or
If it orbits like an electron
around some cosmic nucleus
ordered, suspended by law and love,
a blurred, wriggling, morphing thing,
jossled with the tumbling sands of other moments--
If prophets and mystics can slip their spheres
and know our futures--
If dreamers in sleep can wander
the lives of strangers--
If there is really no such thing
as now or then or when--
Then your house is still on the corner.
The great line of elms is still there.
The push mower still leans against the fence,
and your gloves still rest on the sill.
The Kelvinator still hums
and you,
somewhere in the whirling universe,
Still rock in your chair by the window,
the sun on your mending.
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