Box Lake, 13 May 2019

The future is a small container containing
Nothing, the great attractor, all holy masses,
The door through which the black holes go.
Let’s imagine. Let’s imagine the future as
This pond, modestly shaped, grandly named
A lake. We predict it will very much resemble
The pond of the past, and we prophesy that
Considerable resemblance will be inexact.
In the lake of the near future, it is pleasant,
Although the more distant future looks grim.
Perhaps we’ll park along the shore. Perhaps
We’ll regret, or at least feel uneasy, that we did
Not come prepared for a swim. Or we may be so
Tempted and anxious we quickly strip anyway,
Hoping not to get caught, not to be seen,
And clamber, naked, right on in. If we do, if
We do and get away with the dip, dripping
But uninjured, half embarrassed but unseen,
We predict that we’ll be exhilarated, thrilled
By our own daring, our physical pleasure,
The trivial social danger defied, the spring sun
On our skin after the swim. This, too, we get
From the pond of past resemblances, instances
Of emerging happy after we dove right in.
But who knows? The lake of the future is,
Forever, a watery box inside which it is hard,
Well, impossible to think. We may compose
Ourselves, our pasts, our predictions. We may
Write this and see it published, but we may
Also never make it back to Box Lake: we may
Spend the rest of May among the other labels,
Intervals known as places. The future is a weight,
A vastness inside an infinitely tiny, distant lake,
The box that swallows all Pandoras and lets
Nothing escape. And yet, every possible version,
Every description, is impossible, a happy mistake.
Today is the pond of yesterday, and every poem
Composed today at tomorrow’s lake is a fake.