I bring you fossils from another era,
before the air was
man stink smog fog
in broad daylight—can’t see the sun’s rays right—
when reptiles would play like
Gifts of stones and bones—
where the universe roams
on legs and wings and
from the mountain tops.
Counting stops hundreds of hundreds of
ages ago—no fingers to mark
the months years decades with.
No calendars to measure periodic table shit.
A French kiss in the morning mist
between two triceratops with their kids.
I bring you a breakfast sip
of water from the reservoir.
Because who we are
is organic patterns of dust
come from busted stars.
You’ll be gleaning supernovas
in the light sheening off your scars.
Skin fades, disintegrates
with the interplay of everything
gone, come, come again.
I recognize the face of my friend
in the weeping willow’s sweeping branches bend.
And all things must come to an end.
Meteor, nuclear war—
all things must come to end.