Until recently, I never thought to appeal
To some elaborate story in the future
To explain some aspect of the present.
But it's the future, invisible nonentity,
That has become the weird grab bag of gifts
And demons to stash in the carpet-bag past,
This sagging, capacious, motheaten night
Encrusted with rhinestone stars. What goes
Came from somewhen not yet and not from
What was. The changes I've yet got to get
Through will make the changes I got through
To get here. History is written by the futures.
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