No poem survives its own future
Is this not the fate of any human artifice?
You expect the aliens to come walking off their stellar ships of silver
Dressed in Armani suits
Stylish suits full cut for fall showing off their immaculate fashion sense
And they’ll be reeling off your words
In the voices of angels
They intercepted them about eighty light years out
You expect the children of that distant day
To appreciate every nuance of your every phrase
Expect minds millions of years impending to nod with sage insight
As they recite your poetic tomes to their wriggling podlings
Time is the black hole of the Homo Sapien voice
And when the future arrives its nothing like you thought
All your well crafted phrases
Twisting into something else. . .