Wednesday, September 27, 2017


These measly fractions of
of our lives—
the crumbs
we horde, shivering

and the theoretical
models of its atoms
which we first have

to sketch,
then believe-in, then

they're such a small
part of it;
it's like we're all

staring—long and hard
at the world's
most precise

and sincere
and dazzlingly
beautiful mural,

through a skinny
corroded length of pipe,

to witness one simple,
tile at a time.

This big picture—
if we could see it
mounted there,

against the far wall
made of pure
white lightspeed—is titled:

The Future is Only the Past Remembered

and the docent's little inscription
beside it
probably reads
something like:

The artist's intention here—was never 
to win the war.
It was always, only, and ever 
to stop it.