Yesterday
The past is far away, is farther gone
Than those reaches far beyond the cosmos’ bounds,
And more removed than any future dawn.
The past lurks far beyond the deafened sounds
Of darkness in between black holes, the deeps
Of space between the galaxies, beyond
Our memory’s scraped lacunae. The past sleeps
A deeper sleep than death. Let’s not be fond:
The past is farther gone than death. At least
Death still exists. The past is just erased.
We sometimes think we see its facts, decreased
To stones and papers. It’s like a disgraced
Party man in Nineteen Eighty-Four; less
Than him expunged. The past is a blank mess.