Innumerable Instars

Inhabit the mind,
The whole of the mind,
The bits in your flesh,

The bits in their flesh,
The bits in machines,
The bits in the books.

Protean larvae,
Tapestry of grubs,
Global chrysalis

Eventually, but
Not quite ready yet,
The mind develops,

Shedding skins and heads,
Changing its patterns
And shapes as it grows,

Eating its way through
The world. To your mind,
You are the world, or

One delicious part.
You’re helping it grow,
Helping it transform,

Yes, you, little you,
Brief, nourishing leaf
The next instar chews.

Gone Long Since

You play a game in every room
In any public place—you look around
And ask yourself how long until everyone
In this room is dead? Babies are ringers,
Not just since they’re young but since
The longer a body might live, the more
Room for stochastic or unforeseeable
Events that could interrupt or extend
The allotment. Snowy heads are easy,
Even the outliers likely to be gone
In a couple, three decades. In the middle,
The temptation is actuarial, especially
If it’s a room packed with working adults.
That’s when the curves seem most likely
Predictive, enough numbers to fill them,
Not enough time for the curves
Themselves to shift too much.
Having decided on a guesstimate, say,
Seven decades or so, you can then try
To imagine what the world will be like then
With none of these people living in it.
But think seven decades back. Was it
Really all that incredibly different then?
Some of the taboos exchanged for new,
Habits of dress and speech, maybe
A fairly significant social shift in who
Gets to do what. The most conservative
Will shift their eternal, unyielding beliefs
But still claim eternal, unyielding beliefs.
The most exploitative, most exploited
May shift demographics a bit. Exploitation
Seems likely, in some form, to persist.
Around this point, you weary of the game,
Since your brain’s too weak, your data
Too limited for any real confidence,
And anyway, you’re not here to witness
What the world after you’re not here is.
You’re here to witness to that world that
Worlds end by piecemeal replacement
Of pieces like you, now gone long since.

Bog Lit

Bureaucratic record keeping
Is a peat bog for history,
Preserving the sacrificial

Details in depths separated
By hectares of boggy darkness.
For ages, nothing’s remembered

About a kingdom’s ways of life
And then, a singular body,
Dense with the minutiae of days

As if they’d only just now passed,
Textured, microscopically rich,
Still permeated by darkness.

All You Who Didn’t Die Yesterday

Here you are again today,
Meeting this salutation
From somebody’s yesterday.

Hi there, as we like to say.
Here’s what we know about you.
You use language in some way.

You know some games, how to play.
You have thoughts and opinions.
You daydream and ruminate.

Life is wearing you away.
Your mind sees past its borders.
Every word’s a passageway.

Part of you just longs to stay.
Part hates that you can’t escape.