The Front Face of the Comet Is the Counterfactual Creation

There was an era when one way,
Scholars thought, to preserve your fame
As a preeminent scholar

Was to burn all your books at death.
Burn your sources, cover your tracks.
No one could use your library

To catch up to and surpass you,
Greatest scholar ever was, you.
Later it was more the fashion

To coyly invite scholars in
To trace your every allusion,
But the intention was the same—

To create and preserve the sense
Of awe, a nimbus of glory
Around your formidable name.

What would literature look like
If literally no one cared
Whether name or fame was preserved,

Whether the books one read, one wrote,
Did or did not outlast one’s life?
Could you do it? Could you not care

In the slightest for endurance
Of your culture or your writing?
Not aiming to save or destroy,

Not sprinkling careful mandalas
Manifesting impermanence,
Simply writing since you’re writing?