Metaphysical Model With Feathers

What I know of dimension
Is an old suspicion:
That time is a crack as long
And thin as a wing.

Time is whole and fully fledged always.
We discover its fullness; we pace it out blind on the wing.
We live in time’s quills as senseless as lice.
And the eagle—the petrel?—and the petrel,
Rock Peter walking on water, the petrel
Full noiselessly flies. It plies
The created ages; it beats the boundless along,
Rising without surcease, spiraling down,
Sliding breastbone bent and feeling
The inbound curve of the real.

If time cruises the breadth of the timeless,
Perpendicular, buoying its wings, then
We may guess the style of the rest:

This is the shape of the one god, holy,
Who generates the ages, rapt,
Who tolerates time as a hole in his side,
A petrel blind and churning. This
Is the one god, flailed by wings.
And this is the one time, this raveling hole
Swift in god and voiceless, black beak shut.