Posterity

[NobodyNothing]

*for NobodyNothing

Here in death, lack of breath frees words from their 
fluidity, freezes them in this moment that stretches
for a poet's concept of eternity.  Shaken loose of the flesh
that once subjected them to endless editing in an agony
of self-doubt, they shine briefly with the phosphorescence
of the decaying that does not yet admit its inevitable 
irrelevance.  For a while they are sustained by 
occasional indulgent recollection until one by one they
lose context and sink into the skeletal horror that is
textbook and examination; supported only by 
foetid strands of academia, they become no more than black
and white.

Thank you, Clarice.

(Did you just wing that?  I hate you if you did.)