POEM BEGINNING WITH A SENTENCE FROM AUGUSTINE

Eternity is the now that does not pass away. In subdivisions

we cannot imagine such a thing: a now like a man and a tree

and a sun, all deathless, breath without tariff, light spilled

but unspent.

                        We cannot imagine. In basements of post-war

houses, libraries of Time and LIFE; down the block, the man

who walks a tank that hisses wind into his lungs lest he pass

away. Anything less than eternity is a delay. We resuscitate

every ever. But they too are of some moment, the nows that die.