In the year 2020, T.S. Eliot’s papers will be unsealed.
Let us go then, you and I. Let us take the dust in
our claws, lap the hundreds of letters spilling secrets
into the waste land of irreverent mouths.
Have we no couth? Have we not been trained
to know good things come to those who wait?
Each year we gather ‘round the cave. We don our Sun-
day best, come to see what young muse has risen
from the dead. Tomorrow brings the past wrapped
in plastic eggs, the seal of history broken in present tense.
Storage units preserve our culture’s haunted houses.
The canon is merely a ghost story. Write a poem after me
before I’m gone, and please do not include rest in peace,
only those that are forgotten go undisturbed.