I am the last snail darter, unseeably
Small: A starry arrow, rippling tranquil
Waters; caesura in the poetry of the soul;
Solitary note in sphere's celestial song.
Useful? Know not utility, only
Graceful harmony: A thoughtful link in
That Great Chain of Being, wrought by the Grand
Natural Hand. You forked giant, whose least
Digit is greater than my whole, what rude
Slime, what monstrous pestilence shall ooze
Up to comfort Nature's vacuum?
I swim. I eat (so very little). I
Sleep my dreamless sleep. Once, I bred,
But now a murmured memory. I am
A missing link, a footnote, fretfully
Dissected in some weighty, dusty tract
About extinction. Alone. Alone,
In all the unlit corridors of time,
I beat against eternal night, frantic,
Seeking the unfindable: Some other
Last snail darter, the first green mystery.
Too late, you useful, reasoning giant.
Too late you think, you measure the tiny,
Significant void my silent passing
Tolls. Not Hercules in manly glory,
Not Great Zeus himself, not even all your
White-coat ruminators can right the wrong,
Or foretell what dream ends, what end begins.