All you really have is this moment.
The great and terrible tomorrows
are phantoms.
This here is truth, this poem,
and your eyes scanning.
Behind the mountains, within the clouds,
between the alleys, beneath the clothes,
there is nothing.
Nothing is the only thing promised.
If you love,
love scorchingly.
If you hate,
hate like ice.
It is better to feel
the sting with achingly alive fingers.
The realest thing is this poem
and you,
miracles of the senses.