The rats
and the jellyfish
will survive.
The roaches and the
capybaras
will survive.
The mosquitos, the fruit flies,
the puggles and their soft beaks of
post-apocalyptic adolescence
will certainly
survive.
It’s us—malignant tumors of
ominous origin, contagions
of hominid conceit—that won’t.
And, anyway, of what use
would it be if we did?
Another dreadful century
gone
to vainglorious apathy and
glamorous afflictions, gone
to the silver nostalgias of war.
In some thousand years, the stars
will be too far to see, the negative space
of the sky a new bruise on our progeny.
In some thousand years, a child
of my blood will gaze up
at the bowl of the night and long for a memory.
Humans live
to find meaning, to make fine record
of some urgent, collective Why.
Imagine, then: a dusk
not littered with stars. Can you?
And, anyway—of what use
would meaning
be then?
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The preceding is from the Freeman’s channel at Literary Hub, which features excerpts from the print editions of Freeman’s, along with supplementary writing from contributors past, present and future.
