A Poem that Might Become Untrue

The Browns will never win the Super Bowl,
I’ll die one day, away from all those things,
my head inside   around   above a sea of dark,
and I will never think that patch of life
which stands for nothing and yet means so much.
It means that my experience is a box
from which I can take stuff out, weigh it, see,
but whose insides I cannot ever change.
It means that I can mold myself into the best
and still the old universe will be the rest;
some things won’t move, some things are writ with blood
on the black-coated bulwarks of the world,
and they will never swap
—will never lose their truthful, horrid life.

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