It seems too soon to be thinking
about the end of the world
when only 150 years ago, this great idealistic nation
was fighting itself with bayonets
too soon to think the weather might be gone
whether or not we act now, too late
too soon for the trees to die,
for the glaciers to melt,
for the polar bear to bow upon his prayer rug
of ice and go under
after such a brief century
of ease and bounty for a few people
too many, too few, too many
such a brief time in Macy's and the Cinema Paradiso,
such a brief ride in the Cadillac around the block,
too late, too soon for the water to be gone,
for the rivers to collapse before the sea,
for the fish to fly from the ocean,
after we only just arrived,
after slavery just ended, too late,
too soon for it to begin again
on the other side of oceans,
after just a few years feeling free
to move about the cabin
at 31,000 feet, a few days
with the lights left on in the kitchen,
after the first Black and White photograph just appeared
after our image emerged, emblazoned
on the wall, in the magazine,
after we saw ourselves from space,
like a tribesman handed a mirror,
like a Christian handed a mirror, too late,
too soon for the stars to vanish
after we just saw ourselves appear
on the outskirts of an endless night,
after the long march, after the frenzy and scramble
up out of the dust and plankton, too late
too soon, too late
to turn back upon ourselves, spinning in space,
in our lit corridors of knowledge,
our intricate matrices of speech,
our global city of ceaseless arrival,
our blue-green wonder, too late, too soon,
to say good-bye.