Kronos

They cross the white square of the bathroom floor
in an almost successfully covert
column along the grout, and anyone
watching might wait one moment before slaughter
to think how many eons bred them to
their automatic preference for a track,
a joint in molding, grooves between the tiles.
Or else it’s two or three, like puny cars
gunning it in reverse, hard-braking, gunning
in asymmetric arcs away from me,
Kronos, a half-mile tall, loose in the polis,
indifferent as nature.