A lasting image,
pressed to my temple,
for a purpose.

Words spoken by night,
by the road,
by accident.

A king,
a fountain,
and a train.

Do they strike you
as a fitting triad,
whose outlines echo
across a vast space,
in order to reach the willing?

I studied.
And the others did the same.

When I was there,
a golden light woke me
and saw me through,
until everything was done.

And they say you are different,
forever,
after days like those.

My ways are certainly so,
and, though I always saw the veil,
and the hands that presented it,
these things, too, are changed.

It burns,
thinking and knowing.
And remembering.

There,
in the distance,
shrouded in vivid light and sound,
in constant motion,
a single life.

Or two.

Single lives.

And the day became the night
more than once,
before the night became the day.