You tell me how long it will take
for the Sears Tower to crumble
in on itself like a star. Water will
be our undoing. You tell me
the pillars of bridges will stand
long after their roads have fallen,
but dead gods are no good
to anyone. Corn will shrink
to the size of a finger bone. The word
"bone" will mean nothing. Grass
will cover the streets ankle, hip,
waist-high––we measure the world
by our bodies and without them
the world still grows. Our untouched
oases––nature preserves like
fenced-in jewels––holding
the key to before in after. You say
the stars will again be nameless.
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