Come evening a keening sound in the wilderness,
A call for the divine sloth to end her sad deliberation.
So many stout branches await her grasp. Dusk it is
then, for the Anthropocene and its apex predator,
For the brain that wrote itself an infinite loop and
Conjured up a deity in its own image for the exit.
Remember the child’s sketches on cave walls?
Papyrus, parchment, scroll, codex, Gutenberg’s press.
Resourceful to the end, daring deep ocean methane,
Forcing the Carboniferous up from groaning bowels.
Saved not by the stench of locker room talkers,
Nor by the hegemony of binary types staring at the bonfire.
Innumerable states of glory will go unrecorded hereafter.
No insect, no moth ever had time for arrogance.