The Last Primary Genre

We’re all heart-rotted now,
Happy situation
For the lives lived in us,

The fungi, flies, beetles,
Maggots, moss, and lichen,
But they don’t know what’s next.

Eat elders all you want,
But you need a supply
Of ready-made elders.

Time was, so many oaks
Grew old and died, the world
Was half a green carpet

Studded with luscious rot.
Woodpeckers, nuthatches,
Owls, caterpillars, bats,

Tree creepers, and all sorts
Of lives, little genres,
Adapted to eat us.

But who’s old, anymore?
The last primary poems
Are islands in a world

Of grass signifiers.
While our slow death feeds you,
Early deaths kill you, too.

Never mind. Something else
Will thrive after we can’t
Nourish you. Something new.