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Poem	I thought there would be a grave beauty, a sunset splendour In being the last of one's kind: a topmost moment as one watched The huge wave curving over Atlantis, the shrouded barge Turning away with wounded Arthur, or Ilium burning. Now I see that, all along, I was assuming a posterity Of gentle hearts: someone, however distant in the depths of time, Who could pick up our signal, who could understand a story. There won't be. Between the new Hembidae and us who are dying, already There rises a barrier across which no voice can ever carry, For devils are unmaking language. We must let that alone forever. Uproot your loves, one by one, with care, from the future, And trusting to no future, receive the massive thrust And surge of the many-dimensional timeless rays converging On this small, significant dew drop, the present that mirrors all.
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