Their Collected Works Are Really Something Else

We can spot the libraries
Burning on the horizon,
Half-shrouded in their own smoke,

Grim, ochre haze, like wildfires—
Probably less of a loss
Than any given forest

In the planetary scheme,
But for words, catastrophe.
Some of us will go extinct,

Burnt to ash and gone for good.
Snow is floating towards us,
Mixing with grey paper ash.

There’s a time for everything
To go, which happens to be
When it becomes something else.