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
   then redoubled,
a moment concatenated upon itself,
time not moving beyond itself,
   but returning,
a loop, inward turned without escape.
There is nothing to be done,
   but wait
for the wayward particle,
the leaping errant instance,
without which time could only
   be death,
an end prior to, and frustrating,
   any beginning,
not the accidental catalyst,
   portending tumult,
a remixing, like balls scattered
   on a break.