how unjust, to douse the furnace

how unjust, to douse the furnace
and dream only of stillness,
to be as time unbounded,
when the portrait is only half-consumed.

i can’t revert to the old
where dream is a heart fulfilled
yet ever on the verge of waking, or
awake to the memory of the end.

be among the acacia that shade
in unconscious imitation of clouds,
alien to the universe of deathless shoes
kissing these faint echoes i pursue.

need is shameful when dinner swings
from fingers conversant with strings,
when, in silence, time is freed:
let us be unjust then, and never begin.

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