Bowled Over
The gradation of the sky
from blue to gray
is in severe contrast
with time’s mark’ed divisions—
those illusive spaces
between seconds
that masquerade
as Pause—
As if time
could be rent
neutered in neutral,
with progress
paused and begun,
paused and begun.
Imagine the earth
turning in kind,
lurching and halting,
lurching and halting.
We’d be thrown to our knees,
repeatedly, like bowling pins,
and re-set,
only to be stricken down again,
and maybe spared.