After the Bath

I killed a little one, black and crawly

Coming for his evening drink, my shower

He peeked out twice, knowing I was there

Hid underneath the crevice beneath the sink

I did not mean to hurt him

I had previous successes “liberating” lost insects

Through picking them up and

Flinging them out my window

(Exoskeletons, I figured)

But this one vanished as soft as sand at the

Slightest touch

Did he know it was Doomsday? Unlikely

But neither would I, hardly

If I were a supernova or colliding galaxy

I may be a flying insect to me

To think on doom is an act of letting go

The rafters, letting go the pen

How little do we think on eternity

Trapped in the nest of our conscripted selves

There is a thought that we are no different

Than what we observe

That much may be true

A progression toward unity may be the end

Of science, to put it paternalistically

Humanity does revert itself

What has been figured out must be

Figured out several more times

Before much will stick

Like an unhabitual pupil learning a new skill

My dark, slimy friend is dead

(And so am I)