Perhaps we’ve been all wrong – (we often are,
about fecundity): the point in making form
may not be to exact a lasting certainty –
but to enact conditions for the vast implosive
blast that wrecks it – for release. Perhaps
the interest will arise in some survivor’s wise
inspection of each piece of cracked
detritus left – some lesson in the frightful
and bereft regrets that follow the catastrophe –
so touched by an irrational eternity. There will be
a wracking end to you and me, extracted
from the bowels of the very thing we’ve spent
our lives creating – and from the constancy
with which we sought to be it. Who knows?
Something may well stick around to see it.
about fecundity): the point in making form
may not be to exact a lasting certainty –
but to enact conditions for the vast implosive
blast that wrecks it – for release. Perhaps
the interest will arise in some survivor’s wise
inspection of each piece of cracked
detritus left – some lesson in the frightful
and bereft regrets that follow the catastrophe –
so touched by an irrational eternity. There will be
a wracking end to you and me, extracted
from the bowels of the very thing we’ve spent
our lives creating – and from the constancy
with which we sought to be it. Who knows?
Something may well stick around to see it.
.
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