is pure absence—
if we’re lucky.
If we’re not,
it could be
literally everything—
good and bad, all
rushing past
at full-blast, from first
to last, with
no reprieve and
no contrast.
Picture the mammoth
who went huffing
toward a tar pit—
only to get
trapped there and
gruesomely preserved.
What’s worse
than being forced
to sleep where you shit?
A permanent habitat
made of nothing
but memory.
