and has the pendulum swung
from over there, that
place of fear, of the
lack of power, of no light
and closed doors, of no
walkings and much pain
the open palm on the ground
I can do no thing -

to this: working days
and tiredness, hours of ease
and chattings and pleasaunce -
hours yet the worry
in the heart
of what might come - 

infection of the present
by time gone.  Nothing is clean.

Yes - it has swung
to different space - the weight
transferred through
transfigured air, from there
to here - the arc
subscribed in time: a perfect
curve soundless, circumspect,

speaks no more of that
than it does this:
what was, what will be, what is.
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