Rewind clap-backs, in diatribe with absent
parties maybe irrevocably vacated.
Scratching deepens the furrow, wearing down
to aggravated crackle, echoic clucking
too long after the fact. Keep cutting heads
for dwindling pay-off; under no circumstances
change the record.
What I do in my sleep is less exotic;
miss people, mostly, or try rescuing
their shades from roiling Hades, hauling out
of burning Thames the wrong or some depleted
phantom no longer answerable for itself,
the jawbone working tirelessly in vapid
The dead forget where they have left their secrets.
I find that I am losing track of mine,
confusing them with others’, or what everyone
has always known since book-keeping began.
At Revelation all accounts unlock,
decloak, unspool into the heat-dead void like
I mean that the occluded shall be known,
or that I believe so as a needful
counterweight to leadenness of forgetting
and being forgotten, slowly or by fiat
of curtailment. Somewhere that eschaton
is self-preparing, seeking out kairotic