This poem appears in the Summer 2020 issue of Modern Age. To subscribe now, click here.

The past is cleared of all suspicion, cleared
Of floaters like a shutting eye, an all-
Unseeing eye that needs someone to blind it.
What everybody wants is clarity,
And clarity—in fact, transparency—
Is what our recondite fine art provides.
Take this symposium of historical
Materialists, this gathering of minds.
You see how gradually, how actually
A single mustached Comrade sits, with what
Seems almost whimsy, on a single chair
With his camaraderie of one. You see
Us seen through by his visionary stare,
Inside us only ashes, trees, and air.