This poem is called "Lucy," and it's about the--
no one I know, but the old skeleton, Lucy,
one of the first walkers.
It's called "Lucy."
"The first thing we learned is that we are already in decline.
Our entire time, one opulent blink of an eye.
I believe it.
Even now, in the quiet dusk, when all I hear
is the faint jingle of an ice cream truck.
Hong Kong is counting down.
Antarctica is moaning in tectonic exile.
Our tears are inevitable.
We are not the carnivores, nor the apostles we claimed.
Our upper hand won, not by natural talent
but by our large and somewhat disastrous brains.
Great chunk of skull ravaged by prehistoric disease,
its eye hollows ask about the soul.
Where were you this afternoon when I woke up alone?
A woman is a piano full of secrets,
making her way up the greasy totem pole.
Confess to it.
The flawless test flight of the moon taxi cannot outwit
the coldness of Lucy's bones.
Make no effigy of the wind, when it sifts through me."