The dead man saw the one Electronic Poetry Review begin and end.
Given the start and the finish, the dead man can toggle the first and the final.
For the Internet lasts forever, with Red Skelton and Martha Raye.
With Caruso, with Churchill, with Einstein inbound in sound waves that consume the vacuum.
We in our space bubble can hear the past, we can recast it.
The revisions accumulate, invisibly, randomly layered in dimensions beyond plane and direction.
We can go now, let’s say, to the end point of each war. . .