We spin through history
barely scraping the sides with our bitten,
skin wrecked
fingernails, barely clinging on to the future
and never once allowing
ourselves to make more than the simplest
footprint into the course, dusty sand that Time
plays in.
Yet I briefly touched Time once
as we all should, and as St. Agnes stood
motionless
I carefully traced the ripple of the destruction
running down her spine, the tsunami like waves
that Time and the Fat Man with his cigar