It can't be done.
The author blown down time
like a bullet through a slab of gelatin,
and all we have are hollow traces.
I'm sick of writing about history.
Its unidirectional pathway of death.
I reviewed her novel, which I said was
"living fast and dying young and leaving
A pretty corpse." After she died, I wanted to backtrack
To erase those words,
Or change them. Every writer thinks
Their words the heaviest anchors
To weigh down posterity.
These thin tentpole stakes are
Hammered into loose sand,
Easily dislodged
By wind billows into fabric.
