A Point Within Limits

Time is a dotted line, more or less,
traced to the scale of an open palm

on the dented sheet of space
from here to there, from now to then,

from wrist to index knuckle. Each dot
a blinking instance,

life marked by uncertain events,
blind curves and leaps of faith,

all founded on a measure of disorder
and energy, lost or gained

at the click of that instant
where the physical meets its limits.

And each dot, each point, each moment
is as short or as long as the last rush

of its own annihilation. The speed,
the heat, the light of which depend,

at once, on a scaffolded framework
of experience and how each perceives

the events and unaccustomed intervals
in the movement from start to finish.


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