Tuesday, April 26, 2022


I can't describe 
the physics yet, 

but I sense it works 
like this: 

little by little, 
our past 
clock-ticks keep accreting, 

compressing together, 

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. 

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.