uncooperative

I wrinkle the time that I step through
and muddy it, pulling and bunching
the elusive fabric. Trying so hard; trying to hold it all -
keep it neat for my purposes - themselves
tangled neatly into it.

The clearer I try to scroll it, the blurrier the nap and
pattern, and time is somewhat uncooperative.
Maybe it has its own sense of humour which
is not at all mine.

Softly, barefoot, I gently flex one muscle,
then another, trying to look without prying
because I cannot ride the purposes of the fabric I
tread on. It is too large.
Perhaps, slowly, I will fold it nicely -
but even then it sticks and catches aggravatingly.

So what to do - to lie down swimming in the endless stuff?
Let it carry me in its capricious waves,
and drown, no doubt.

I don’t trust time,
but, all unwilling, I am carried by her
never the other way round:

straight to eternity
by way of endless wrinkles.