What shape does a lifespan make?
Is it poured into a person?
Or, does it exist somewhere else—a ghostly accretion of past-selves.
As a sum, what is its identity?
What space does it make in the world?
Is it a form?
Can we grasp it?
Know it? See it?
Or is the sliver we get too small.
Is the whole too large, the rhythm too complex?
Does meaning slip through the fingers of our brains and the capacity of our eyes.
Or are we just not paying close enough attention.