When you go, the sun rises and sets at the expected times,
head counts stay constant in the wilderness,
And business proceeds as usual in the warrens of men.
It would be difficult to orchestrate a quieter end;
No martyr offered to the harpoon,
No eulogy delivered to the congregation of the maudlin.
On that day, adjourning Congress lauds itself.
Its members, fleeing to their dens, declare
Another thankless, necessary year is at an end.
And through the wrecked forests and rivers of America
The matrices of change drift to a new configuration.
Equations tremble and fall; their terms shift imperceptibly
Toward unforeseen solutions. You swim Hell’s river,
Its sloughs crowded with shades of the extinct
Like knots hacked from a seine, piled deep in the shallows.
Small fish, we do not mourn your passage
Through the lightless waters of the Preterite;
Nor do we beg your intercession on the other side.
Tell them when you can that we do well.
And when the world is bent and torn beyond repair,
That we’ve the pride to engineer a proper Hell.
Copyright © 2020 Vasily Ingogly. All Rights Reserved.