They say our eyes perceive an image less
than half the time at the standard rate of
twenty-four frames per second triggering
the electrical and chemical sleight
of hand known as persistence of vision,
giving my profane creations rendered
flip book style in the outer margins of
my eighth grade algebra text a sacred
patina, a phenomenon that sheds
light in one corner but leaves another
in shadow, a quiet place to sit and
wonder about the dark gaps between the
frames that, if my math is correct, occur
more than half the time at the standard rate  
of twenty-four frames per second; a dim
corner with a desk, chair and window where
I will write the screenplay for the film of
our lives to be screened once and only once
at one frame per second, spaces between
a mad tangle of joy and tears, where we
will sit side by side in the balcony
until the lights come up, the credits roll.