Banister, baluster, post and newel,
All calculations, curved and angled,
Mark the pitches of the stairwell.
There must be a landing somewhere
With no steps to stop a fall,
Just glide lightly by the wall
And no markings for each day
Or minute or hour anyway.
Where step by step is not a phrase
Nor a concept that is said,
Where time spreads out like ocean foam
Across a sand of countless grain
On tides where there’s no cycle gained.