the physics yet,
but I sense it works
like this:
little by little,
our past
clock-ticks keep accreting,
compressing together,
crystallizing,
and ensuring the foregone
fate of our tomorrows.
Each moment,
like a speck
of wasted black sand,
is blown
by the destitute
wind of expectation
to its spent resting place
on a quiescent hill.
Until
eventually, a whole
mountain is fashioned,
inside of which, nearly-
unlimited vectors
of pressure and force
advance downward
and pulverize
some of that dead dust
from coal
into diamond.
Sooner or later, though,
that diamond
is mined,
and all possibilities—
not to mention
all eyes—
turn to the proximate
prize and
go narrow.
