All that matters
of all these matters
that mutter and annoy
that clamor and deploy
is whether I will make it

whether I will dodge long enough the edges
that before they were dulled felled so many
and survive the slow systemic poisons
of an increasingly toxic environment,
the inborn betrayals of the finite body

and arrive sufficiently unreduced
at that one moment destined
to sever yesterday from tomorrow
absolutely, that intuited instant
when everything changes

everything else is petty or can be postponed,
addressed better in that singular future
when everything will be different
and there will be a surfeit of time
for resolutions, for everything

these rude moments now are so brief,
so compromised as to be unreal,
they can't matter much
no matter how I might fill them,
how I might feel them

eternity is just ahead,
not empty heaven to lose in death
or partisan paradise of polemic prudes
but an endless ecstatic curve alive
where every me but me awaits