Play Attention

A month of Sundays,
A year of that month,
A decade of years

Made in that gapped way,
And if you could skip
Ahead you could live

Centuries missing
Most of what you’d lived.
You’re a reader, or

You wouldn’t be here,
So you know sometimes
You sneak peeks, you skip.

Is the book better,
In retrospect, skimmed?