Rondeau, on attention

My attention spans this bridge.  This
gap is a whole in my head, is 
a hole in my hands where I hold
my world together, just an old
vacancy between my stasis

and my change.  This thing that I twist
and twiddle with is still, a list
of paper chasing after folds.
My attention

spans more and less than I am.  This 
space is a place that hides the kiss
of time, hides it in every hole
and makes me time’s churlish cuckold,
held captive by all that has missed
my attention.








...puttin' the Po' in NaPoWriMo...