T i m e : t r a i l s . . .
Feet first, belly down
the line drags me on a marble plane of time.
Unbrushing my traverse
lives and meanings flicker flow.
When they close,
they're bigger than my eye,
and I cannot see them whole.
When they pass,
the strand pulls on too strong
before they fade down-plane.
Prone and bound I strain to peer.
Machinery ethereal, stop.
Review, embrace, rejoice I must.
But still I slide
flailing to know each momentary sphere.
One eagle-hand escapes its bonds,
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.