Dear Diary,

I am your second owner, and this will be my only entry
before you begin a life less nondescript: a brutally
volimunous sublimation within furnace.
It seems your previous author, and I use that particular
in its obligatory sense, held pretensions of adequacy,
and what else is there to relate?
They are gone.

          They may still live (of course! (twenty-two years
now since)) but your abandonment, testimony
if not indictment against any list of listless days:
   June 16th, for instance: Jason wants to fuck me so bad.
He watches me at practice. He's never not looking!
Carrie says blow him already and let her watch.

December 18th, the year prior:
I love the beach! I'm soooo fucking fat in this bikini--
Need to get money from Mom. Exercise!
Your penultimate reads simply: Homework. Willa Cather.
   O, you shall burn and I rejoice, and reconsider
stupidity as finished iron-work: cumbersome to bear
and to the eye, facile; reconsider

          Rust as slag in finer forge; that every whimper
bellows warm; dream your ocean one of vapid,
tender-tongued gods that savor you still; heat the kettle
upon your fire to praise by its scream what virtue
you may have held; know you as youth, the only genius true--
Mourn all that is marker in this tomb.