Such inverse efficacy:
Rocks grind
to sieve through the throat of an hourglass
and then back to obsidian again.
How scarce are the aisles,
of airiness in birds
between
their wings!
to amass
from one pinion to the other
in order to flap,
to sink through the funnel shaft,
of this very dimensionless moment
named: "now",
gradually, ad infinitum,
circulating to fly
to forever be a wayfarer,
the pilgrim of lost perfection
in aberration
that interminably splits present
to
past and prospect,
omnipotence to distance,
omnipresence to time,
pause to waves
inertia to fortuity,
and void
to
clatter.
