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All this will endure long after me.
The vacant, rubbed green velvet of the west,
Pierced by stands of whitestriped cliffs, blessed
By all its unseen dead, patiently
Eroding into rivulets of raingouged
Terrain.
We are too high to see the human
Element except in weak traces:
Threadlike footpaths webbed along the mesas.
Now it is plain: now it is explained.
When mountains blend to mere topography
Of course I am forgotten: how could it be
Any other way, from this austere
Vantage, aloof and cool, an atom, a mote
Among the motes too full of petty bread.
Alive, who cares a cuss that we are here—
And why bemoan a clocktick when we’re gone.
A lovely gift, this earth, but with a lift
Of chin, it passes, under the whiter vapors
And so much more is out there higher, much more
Inexplicable, but blue and clear.
We pass above and land, to join the others,
Those cheap simulacrums, staring at screens,
Oblivious as chimps, blind paramecia.
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