Not even a dying echo,
all that yelling & screaming
down into the past's fissures
of substance I've self-evidenced and made daily,
up the faces of contemporaries I've disdained,
point blank into the gob of anyone at all,
into bell chimes that cling for a while,
but soon fade into traffic noise
and cosmic background

Not even a margin note
or a scribbled remark
will human memory retain when it's ceased;
might just as well be an undrawn breath
in an undivided nothing
in a universe stretched taut
like a giant Hilleberg dome of silence;
henhouses & care needs rattling past
on a black-and-white Super 8 reel