Likely Site of a Celtic Necropolis

"But how much excitement did you need if you were dead?" -Ozeki

Slightly more than a quarter-century
Ago, slightly less than yesterday,

One waited for then unimaginable,
Now unrecoverable information.

The world arrives equipped with time,
And poetry, basically, is the warp
Of world through a working mind.
As the forest thins to scrub, so words go.

Careful, boyo. Wash your hands and mind
Your poems. . . . The worlds revolve
Like fashion models, starving to death
As they twirl. Welcome to entropy.

Welcome, again, to forgetfulness.
Like an ecologist monitoring effects
Of poachers on forests primeval,
You can be the witness of despair

As the witnesses' recollections
Are devastated and decay. You
Are the scribe who unwrites
The underwritten universe. Erase.

But carry on. No one will know.
Least of all you, collaging borrowed
Phraseology as if quotations could buy
Life and time. You're gone.