As we lean into the future,
the past unfurls behind us,
a long comet-tail
dragging through the ribs of memory.
Everything moves:
planets, decisions,
even the shadows of choices
we never made,
everything circles
its own vanishing.
Only in the Now
does the orbit seal itself,
a molten ring
cooling into stillness,
a circlet I wear
that is absolute
precisely because
it is never there.
For the Now is Zero,
the fulcrum of to be
and not to be,
the secret hinge of the cosmos,
absence twinned with presence,
the silent point
where each opposite unwrites itself
to be born again.
It is the place
where all things
cancel
and complete
one another,
the eternal seesaw
of the me
and the you.
