A second,
minute,
hour,
day or
week
is like a bauble strung upon a cord
in graduated range,
each bead discrete,
but all together grouped and tending toward
a bracelet,
necklace,
anklet,
rosary,
in purposeful arrangement of its parts.
So minutes run to quick infinity –
eternity is made of moments’ hearts.

I aim to feel each bead against my skin.
I’ll roll it on my fingertips to know
its shape,
its temperature,
its glide and spin
on knotted string,
its opalescent glow.
I want to like each bead,
and like as much
the way a mass amounts to fill my touch.