Of the Numbered Days

Nothing equals
the drunken barter of yesterday and today.
Their indigo wine is the holy matrimony
of past and present, the union of was and is.
I know that what I said
Is only a libation of admittance.
Is there only this handful of dull pencils?
Is there only this box of broken crayons?
Our crowns depend on the turning of a page,
the exhalation of a breath, the dying of an only child.
Everything stands between
the ocean and the shore
in the footprints that already lead nowhere,
where cripples are afraid to walk.
The blood of many martyrs purges tomorrow,
and even the pavement cracks
at the thought of eternity.