"time quivers slightly . . . the tiny shifts in everything--cell replication, the rain of dust motes, lengthening hair, wind-pushed rocks--press inexorably on and on" ~Proulx
The days too short for complete happiness
Tease us with the thought of satiety,
Those folding black wings of desire shouldered
Neatly across our broad, muscular backs.
Why not? We are angels, each one of us,
Chimeras of mere chemistry, living
Systems, beings, and cultural vectors,
The impossible things of our own dreams.
We could rise up yet through the sand hourglass
We constructed, hymned, and then abandoned
For mechanical chimes and cuckoos, then
For quartz and silicon, mere chemistry.
See? It's eternally what it was, comes
Eternally newly old, newly past,
But somehow closes a complete cycle
Or two. Nothing was so monstrous. Inhere
Without having been inherent, and you,
Too, may stretch gossamer wings, Dragon! Fly.