The comedy advances, we withstand,
to find ourselves prone on a golden beach
fastened with ligaments, our feet in sand-
castles constructed prehistorically, and each
digit a memory to be wiggled at,
each clump a lifetime sliding out of reach …
And as the world proceeds with crooked gait,
we thrash about for causes, or we wait.
Here we rejoin the all-absolving sea
of alibis the calendar advances:
that Time unravels forward, or that History
was nothing but a plague of backward glances.
And as the pathway narrows up ahead,
we glance over our shoulder, and we tread.