looking ahead

The quiet times are important. The hum of a radiator;
The brightness of an unfamiliar bulb. Starkness of
Another's space. All grant a quietude. Not of thought
But of spirit. You are less yourself in another's home.
Still, that lessness is not to be sneered at. It lends the
Mind a space of non-belonging in order to reflect.
On time slipping like sand through sun-tanned toes.
Of the meaning of that sand. It's hardness, the last
Thing left when even rock is rendered nil by waves.
Sand slips and slithers. Children dig holes to other
Worlds. Footmarks left behind. Crabs make homes
Within its grain. Angels count the number of these
Grains. Everything shall be accounted for, in the
Course of time, which slips through sun-tanned toes,
Like sand. All of this passing, all of these marks, can
Be guaged in quiet times; read in mute foreign walls.