Stop! What is the shape
of pure, white
expediency?
Light
"on its way"
from nowhere
to everything? Or
God
getting stumped
by a CAPTCHA
before he's allowed
to complete the next transfer?
"This could take
forever," we
mutter (although,
strictly, that's not possible),
as if time
were our material
and could thusly
get corrupted;
As if truth—
or whatever
the light is,
for that matter—
could ever
be grasped.
But not grasped
like held-up—
grasped
like
interrupted.
