Not for long, trying each day to record
What it was to be a person on the earth,
Sure to succumb to the whims of physics
And to the fickleness of our own kind.
A book, a barn, a hard drive, a carving on stone—
Roofs to keep the rain and the sun
Off the few feeble works of our making,
And our tools with their handles worn smooth.
So go on, small song, written in vanishing ink,
Infant of the brain, beamed by satellite
From continent to continent,
Find eyes to be read,
Talk to as many strangers as you can,
Find those aching, joyful souls
Who remind themselves each day that we die,
And cherish the chance at impermanence,
If only for a little while.
