One where
dark
fields
stretch
out
ceaselessly
into the unknown.

One where
obscurity
is beyond
tomorrow
year by
year.

One where
what recedes
is somewhere
back in what
we did not know.

One where
brooding wonder
is vast against
the future.

One where
the end is rolled under
what is already.

One where
it is already behind.

(cut-up: The Great Gatsby – F Scott Fitzgerald)