are these black,
grotesque creatures—
these odd gargoyle
statues we're all
turning into?
Which ashen,
apocalypse-
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.
