Feet first, belly down
they drag me with a rope on time’s marble table.
Scarce touched by my passing
spheres on the table-top flash past.
When they close,
they’re bigger than my eye,
and I cannot see them whole.
When they pass,
The rope drags too quick
before they fade down-table.
Prone and fixed I strain to see down-ramp.
Stop the machinery.
I want to examine, consider, marvel.
But still I slide
struggling to assimilate each brief sphere.
One eagle-hand escapes its bounds.
wake-outstretched, torn nails scrape,
rasping for respite on this bob-sled run.
Time drops me down his spiral chute.
These scratches that you see, dyed in red,
mark the passing of my bleeding finger-tips.