He spins his past to catch his future,
iridescent and winged.
It’s a chance dropped into the air
like a stone into water.
From that center, ripples pulse,
stringing possibilities like beads.
His nocturnal attention is fixed,
counting each one out to the periphery.
Some threads of the latticework
catch leaves, some dangle raindrops,
others let light slide down their lengths.
But time flings live hearts into the web
to die there. And he wraps them up
in the shape of his unchanging hunger.
