Finites

The day has burned away —
see its ashes drift across the darkness
(if you can make them out
by the light of the last glowing embers).
So much energy was spent
driving so incessantly forward,
so many blind leading so many blind.
We say we follow vision,
from those in front, who say they see,
to those in back, who say
that they believe; but dreams
are no morning star, never so sure,
and we take only what we may discover
as we excavate what we can from the future:
nowhere does it say,
“Dig here,” except when someone
is trying to sell the real estate.
And tonight we will dream again
until the morning star
lights low in the sky, tinder kits
to ignite the new day that we start,
and we will pour incessantly forward
and see what we may carve
from the grounds of the world to come:
the now is as ephemeral
as it is adamant, the throttle
where what may be decides what is,
and never stops revealing
the bottom line to our imagination.