Thursday, September 14, 2023


What in the world 
are these black, 
grotesque creatures—

these odd gargoyle 
statues we're all 
turning into? 

Which ashen, 
raided town square 

(and from where) 
do we slouch toward? 
After birth, 

every woman 
and man seems 
to fade, 

little by
little, to some 
rumpled up object,

or clubfooted 
symbol, or hoarse-
whispered proverb.

Unlike what we'd 
heard, things do not
fall apart; 

instead, they just 
harden, contract, 
and conserve—until 

all our lives 
are worth is their lines, 
curves, and serifs,

and everyone 
on Earth who has ever 
loved and laughed—

from Abraham 
and Sarah, down to 
Peaches and Herb—

sooner or later—
gets collapsed  
into a word.