We weren't then who we are now, nor then, did we know who we would come to be.
Imagining, once, we almost dreamed, and then forgot, the possibility of
becoming who tomorrow we must discover in our bathroom mirrors,
and then, pretending, seeing no longer visions of unfolding design, nor dust now remolded into plastic imitation, but forging anew, like steel from iron, like earthy coal from unaffordable diamonds, like a ride on the subway from a pillow-tossed morning dream, the stain on our hands, the dirt under our fingernails, all proving gloriously our miraculous aliveness,
and the inevitable perfection of Her world, and the spiral that appears before our feet,
like a precipice, yes, but like a memory too,
and so we dance together, now, us, in this place, here, who we are,
feeling each other's warm moving blood through thin membranes of palm and seeing all as it should be, perfect and infinite.
No, not yesterday, today, now, the way to tomorrow unfolding as we walk.