Hubristic

On the roof of night, stars dangle umbilical
cords like worms over starving fish. It’s the
vision behind a moon spitting out poison

over American cities. It’s a massacre of our silent,

invisible angels. They fall on their faces,
wings breaking as they convulse in flowerbeds.

But time passes, and visions die as new ideals are born.

We can never be sure of what’s next—prophets or not.
And pirate flags just don’t seem appropriate anymore.

What’s this? Tigers meandering through traffic jams.

A new, terrified generation ignorant of lush green
jungles and bolting prey. But this animal does not

anti-exist as an animal. It never cared about our art,

or the industrial revolution, or if our eyes roll into the
backs of our heads. And as we continue to nail our

egos to Roman columns, we may one day know a

giant who plucks no humble thing from life and
wipes its hands of it. This we should require.

Evolutionary gifts such as this, which know kinship

to angels and poets, will surely prevail—for the
fruit of today rots on the untended vines of tomorrow.


(From the book Kairos)