Does the endless 7-day cycle
our lives are structured into
get worn like an old leather binder
that's been opened again and again?
How many times, this pilgrimage
down the stations of the week,
before arriving at a timeless place?
I enter yet another 7-room house
and walk with one eye
to the details of each compartment —
dishes to wash, disorder to tidy —
and the other longing, longing, longing
for what lies completely beyond
Max Reif
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-temporal-blues/
