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
our ideas will last,
that this human fruition
will pass
through maturation
without its succumbing
to rot, heaviness,
and stink
when even the genius
of dawn
is arrested
every single morning,
in thirty minutes
or less;
and the charge
isn't arrogance,
or even
significance—
but merely an existence
sailing past its
expiration.
