Other men too are only dreams of time

Other men too are only dreams of time,
fantastic leaves scattered by the wind
in the expansive pasture. Other men too
are asleep without a calendar, the Sundial

articulates the hour. I have imagined
a ridiculous universe, the moving stars
create alphabets that fail to capture
whatever she is. Other men too are only

manifestations of the infinite. I have
no claim to her, no proof of her existence
to cite in this library. The monastery

hides in the trees, time is now asleep
in the carvings of stone. I cannot escape
these fantasies dancing across the night.