“The sacred function of hope has, in modern man,
degenerated into a hideous disease called tomorrow.”
How does the old age not already become the new age?
How does the ancient not always transform into the modern?
Would expectation focus on the want for difference?
Then why keep looking in the same spot
where the Housekeeper of the Way
forever sweeps the Nothing dust of Becoming
neath the rug of the Encompassing?
Space transcends now.
Time transforms here.
Heeding our obsession,
we take the literal presentation of what grabs us.
We ignore changes happening around us
except insofar as a change feeds the obsession.
The tumult of our imagination
Lingers, turning over in itself
What is static and unchanging
This covetous object of our what-should-be,
The immanent hope made imminent in our attention.
Yet Nothing always retracts
Becoming already reforms
The Way returns
The Encompassing recurs