Another day goes by and more cracks
spread through the asphalt, creeping close
across the surface that is cooling now
as we approach the night.
Everyone is in their rooms, if they are among
the lucky, and they are pretending
to be heroes by pressing buttons,
or just watching some T.V.

It feels like our world is brittle
and every day it is taken off the shelf,
where it is safe, and tossed between the hands
of whoever bought the fucking place
in the beginning. Listen to me now,
I’ve convinced myself that this whole thing
was a transaction from the start, but the worst part
is all the people who believe me.

We will still have grocery stores well after
this old sun goes supernova.
They will be pale imitations of the ones before
in some distant galaxy where space deer
eat the space leaves off of purple trees.

We will wonder what this place was like
even as we live out all its backwards
crusades against the universe.
The artists will distort the past
and the present will be clearer
than the water we brought with us
when we landed.

It might be heavy handed to assume we’ll
even get that far, but I keep a high bar
for all the things I have no say in.
Why shouldn’t I expect the best from people
who I’ve never meant and will never even see
the slightest glimpse of?

The one exception is a woman
with a poorly painted face that demonstrates
a kind of deity specifically for space.
She will lead the human race through
all the repetitious cycles building slowly
toward the moment when we realize
we’ve been living in a dream.

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