I was alone inside a book as I’d wished. It was
fifty years from now. I didn’t live that long.
The book was lost, in an attic, a locked trunk,
a storage space, under rubble. It was the last
copy, the only. Immortality seemed a memory.
My journals were lost or incinerated, those fervent
transcriptions and wonderings and hopeful
evenings, scripts for wild lives unlived, unloved
long since disintegrated. Whatever power
I encoded had escaped and moved on. I was
neither I nor eye nor lie. No one cared or could.
Even what was left of me wasn’t. My bones
were as brittle as a text, religious, with no teacher.
Looking back, there was no future, no future.
Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2012
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.