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