we carry history not as a chain but a resonance as if all hours exist all at once prisoners to a tide, maybe so, but we mistake the surface for the shore -if we could only turn sideways pivot on the sharp coordinate of now we might slip the strict geometry of the grid see how the individual footprints dissolve -the trickster’s sleight of hand was convincing us we were particles isolated points marching in the sand when we have always been the wave cresting, breaking transmigrating through the dark leaving no fixed thing behind but the tide itself