There is time, which waits
and sits upon the moment,
tamping laughter, stilling bemusement,
like heavy blankets, stifling movement
on a cold winter day.
Like a refrain doubled and
a moment concatenated upon itself,
time not moving beyond itself,
a loop, inward turned without escape.
There is nothing to be done,
for the wayward particle,
the leaping errant instance,
without which time could only
an end prior to, and frustrating,
not the accidental catalyst,
a remixing, like balls scattered
on a break.