Have we no more beginnings, ‘s the folio filled,
and the last leaf of that jumbled-up bundle been spilled?
If so, merely shuffle-arrange them until
some resembling-a-story ghosts forth from the chill
of mem’ries all frozen, constraining the will
to nutritionless, spectral, repetitive drills.
If we have a future, it’s one I can’t see;
of my eyes’ broadcast beams, which test fiction dreams,
and illuminate paths upon which my flight
occurs; stooped, eyes up, I proceed –lacking schemes–
to woods, alien, groping on through the night.