Who reads the hidden histories
Of what didn't happen
But might have and almost did
So much more voluminous
Than what squeaks through
And actually occurs
It's like there's a tiny pin-hole
Into which many vistas
Are crowding but only one
Breaks through speculation
One particular grain of sand
Among the trophies of the real
While all the others wait their turn
Until finally there is nothing
That won't happen
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