Something so long, so all-embracing, so rich in
Connections, reconnections, lives and knitted thoughts:
That it could finish, die the death, be whisked away into
Some land of null, nevermore synchronous, the never-never.
What is the worst of it? Surely that’s tied to the foreseeing,
Foreknowledge of the fade, the moment unending
When all will be decimal fractions, forms, filings, followed by
Whatever the Aftertime has had in store from the beginning.
Consider William J., who with yet a year to go before the mandated
Date, met his Writer’s Club at term’s end, heard their clever works,
Listened to the critiques, made suggestions witty or sardonic as
Was his wont, and looking their faces over, burst into tears.