How things seem is not so much how they are
than how we seem to ourselves, flatteringly
or not.
How they are is no more than partly-knowable,
fleetingly half-describable by
migrant world-devouring words.
Neutrinos. Galaxies of galaxies. People.
Like disappearing birds,
they exist somewhat insubstantially
until they threaten our hopes or health or habits
or our own seeming existence,
though there is no finale of seem,
just the apparent filth of fate,
the sheer meanness of annihilation,
the petty planetary scream
muffled by hereditary hate.
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