of a thing
is disclosed,
it becomes trivially
easy to expose its
rough seams.
The past, for instance,
is now fixed—a living death—
in memory,
and we quickly grow
nostalgic
for present tense's old
unpredictability.
And so,
we get busy—
we plot
charts, invent
astrologies—conferring
purpose
on the fleeing stars,
after failing
to remember any.
