later, everyone
muses: perhaps, if
no one measures it,
time refuses
to pass.
But of course,
a fat lot of good
that would do.
All that flaccid
stasis would only
confuse us—plus,
it still wouldn't
give us what we
actually want:
namely, the ability
to make it
run backwards.
But the only way
to do that
is to banish
all this chaos—
to scour
our regret and strip
the now of all
past decadence.
We must
demolish entropy
and extirpate
collapse. We have
to do the laundry;
we have to
wash dishes.
