Like that fly the poet heard and was,
As she took her turn imagining
The final moment from the inside.
It’s a cross-cultural obsession,
The one guaranteed experience
No one can tell you about, only
Report the occasional near miss.
One knows it only a split second
And then knows nothing more. The buzzing
Witness can never get close enough.
What is it you want to know so bad?
The only future you’re guaranteed
Is that one in which you’ll never be.
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