Pieces

Pieces

Ours is period intermediate

Before the end of time brushes over

The heaven and the sea.

Though we be homo diminished

After apocalypse,

Can we still loom larger than life?

Or shall we,

Save for slate skies,

Still clamor for grass blades

Springing forth

When the sulfur rain is done?

And the oceans,

Yea, the oceans,

Will it still hold

Its thousand mysteries

Untold?

Can we still plaster cast

Broken mountain bones?

Will the remains of ancestors

Fill up pits of ravage

And reverse the damage

Wrought to virgin lands?

After the curtain call,

Will new sapiens’ breed,

At least, mull over this fault;

Fill in the gaps;

Perhaps, conclude:

In all these,

There is something amiss,

Save for anthropology’s pieces.