In the present

they flood me
with great, windshield-paralyzing
sheets of words and blinding walls
of imagery,
so I push down the corridor
and the flood diminishes somewhat
but still roars at me at near-gale
strength.
So I push
farther and the torrent seems to
settle down some more,
and I need my searchlight
as I head into the
darker reaches.
In those nether regions the
voices dwindle to a few,
(though sometimes astonishing
choruses sing at me in brief
eruptions)
and I have to take their word
for what I'm seeing.
And farther back there are only
shredded paragraphs,
then disembodied sentences,
then words floating like
wreckage,
and then all is silence
with only bones and
shattered pottery
lying about in
taunting
disarray.