going into this
that Eden sank to grief,
that going to seed
is inevitable, since
evergreen is rare
as gold—
but still
we like to think
that ours will be
the pith that lasts—
that this human fruition
will pass
through maturation
without its succumbing
to heaviness and stink—
when it's plain
that even the dawn
gets arrested
every single morning
in thirty minutes or less;
and the charge
isn't arrogance, or even
ostentation—
but merely of existence
sailing past
its expiration.
