minute
by minute,
we content ourselves
with the imposition
of our will
to persist
upon arbitrariness
and then call
the newly minted thing fate.
All along the balance beam,
we prance
or we cling
to this gangplank
that bridges
the gap between
the playthings we were
and the devils
we're becoming,
capitulating
to the passing of every
present moment
as sweetly as we accept
the juiciest
orange is lined with
rind and pith—
as if
we could convincingly
assent to live
the lives we were
already born with.
