|one two three four five external drives.|
And then, the drives hummed their subtle hum, and flashed their discreet, bright lights, and I thought, NO. So I dug a little deeper and, in digging, I found documents, many documents, some of which I printed and some of which I stuck into nested digital folders, folders which will one day find their way to an external drive much like these, and I will save these folders not once but twice or even three times, and then I'll search the drives and say, of course it's disorganized, of course it's redundant.
Or maybe I'll have taken off my drive-digging gloves at that point. Maybe by then all personal rank-advancing archives will have ceased. Maybe, on Saturdays, there will be hours for napping to go with an hour for the farmer's market and the last cherry tomatoes. Maybe by then I will have bequeathed my drives to the dust. Or some archive. Or some dusty archive. At least in the drives I found some poems. Files of poems, redundant, disorderly, decidedly non-rankable poems.