Ask if today’s the day you thought;
the late return of the spring in the joints,
the bend in the knee. The day for reviving the body,
imagining reversal of the process.
Forgive your older self and let the time come at you,
the last time for dancing, the start of the slow
return to the beginning, the empty glass, the limit.
Now it’s the medium term, that’s the short term
with a longer shadow; it’s the breakfast things
still in the sink as you go to bed. It’s the time.
You’ll be there when the angel blows the golden horn
and the white robes blast away,
shredded on a fine wind of silken debris
lost with all the sticks, bits, plastic, straw, the dust
of the dying sphere undying; after five acts
of the drudges’ procession preparing
the twelve gates to the city, the dull knock
to wake the fiend, to open the boxes,
unlock the stables; horsemen riding out and out
to face us, to sort our components,
whip out the scales and sword to acquit
the good and the wicked, swallow the virus,
destroy the last and the first. The world we knew,
and where we’ve been. It’s the time.
