Nobody sees it happening, but the architecture of our time Is becoming the architecture of the next time.
And into the close and mirrored catacombs of sleep We'll fall, and there in the faded light discover the bones, The dust, the bitter remains of someone who might have been Had we not taken his pla...
No voice comes from outer space, from the folds of dust and carpets of wind to tell us that this is the way it was meant to happen, that if only we knew how long the ruins would last we would never complain.
...Then a man turned And said to me: "Although I love the past, the dark of it, The weight of it teaching us nothing, the loss of it, the all Of it asking for nothing, I will love the twenty-first century more...
There is no end to what we can learn. The book out there Tells us as much, and was never written with us in mind.
From the shadow of domes in the city of domes, A snowflake, a blizzard of one, weightless, entered your room And made its way to the arm of the chair where you, looking up From your book, saw it the moment it landed. That's all There was to it.
Time slips by; our sorrows do not turn into poems, And what is invisible stays that way.
What we desire, more than a season or weather, is the comfort Of being strangers, at least to ourselves.
