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