WEBVTT

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This poem is called "Lucy,"
and it's about the--

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no one I know, but the
old skeleton, Lucy,

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one of the first walkers.

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It's called "Lucy."

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"The first thing we learned is
that we are already in decline.

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Our entire time, one
opulent blink of an eye.

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I believe it.

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Even now, in the quiet
dusk, when all I hear

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is the faint jingle
of an ice cream truck.

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Hong Kong is counting down.

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Antarctica is moaning
in tectonic exile.

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Our tears are inevitable.

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We are not the carnivores,
nor the apostles we claimed.

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Our upper hand won,
not by natural talent

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but by our large and
somewhat disastrous brains.

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Great chunk of skull ravaged
by prehistoric disease,

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its eye hollows
ask about the soul.

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Where were you this afternoon
when I woke up alone?

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A woman is a piano
full of secrets,

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making her way up the
greasy totem pole.

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Confess to it.

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The flawless test flight of
the moon taxi cannot outwit

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the coldness of Lucy's bones.

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Make no effigy of the wind,
when it sifts through me."

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