The past becomes an octopus.
I’ve seen it and too-tendrilled know:
She’s an inky, unblinking escape artist—
Need a trink to get near without drowning.
But let her veer deep to where sixgills go.
Pike-skewer a star, instead, my dear;
Sail ne’er to see your sun downing—
On hook-n-spear, stick any good
Worth a farewell-follow.