According To Hoyle
snapshot time,
its semblance of order
mocked-up by what we imagine
to be memories
(frayed-tail streamers
from every solitary moment);
no arcing bow of causality,
not really, no experiential narrative,
just saltating consciousness,
flashlight on a cavern wall,
no matter how many times
you light on this perfect day
it's always the first and only time,
ten thousand frames flicker,
space-time's frozen illusion,
a blurred album
of unchanging flight.
Prev. publ.: Magazine of Speculative Poetry
