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.