Nature knows no centuries,
no neat dismemberment of time
into specimens of meaning
as if existence were a measuring
cup and life poured in
by a finicky, proportional chef.

There is no breathing space,
no moment between moments,
and every moment is a tragedy
waiting not merely to happen
but waiting to happen again.

When Herostratus (shh) burned down
the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus
in order to become immortal,
he may have flung a stone
through the window of time,
but it bounced off Ulugh-Beg
in Samarkand and 1018 lights
went out in the sky, darkening
the days and night at Buchenwald.

You get the picture.
Except there is no picture.
There is instead centesimal spillage
so that from time to time
the blood that binds us
binds us for eternity.