Beyond Destiny

Yesterday closed its box with thudding dullness

that escaped the ears of another room; ears

caught the tumult of tomorrow, not knowing

the still-born traits of repetition—same old,

same old, the aged like to say, squawking out

memories of new-found wisdom, astounded

over the prophetic voice clutching throats

in the final clasping expressed before the second

day has passed away, the trail of grave clothes.

How we’d relive those shuttering days, so we say,

voicing lies the ancestors spoke when they

passed on mistakes for us to catch in pools

opened by the mutant twist of destiny

bearing the plan of God that lies a finger’s

width away from touch—a foretaste

of Zeno’s arrow that never hits the mark.

The eternal “almost” thuds tomorrow.