and the jellyfish
The roaches and the
The mosquitos, the fruit flies,
the puggles and their soft beaks of
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
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.
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