The Monuments

In later days the world will be full
of monuments -- every boulevard arched
in solid triumph, every wall rough
with names. The weather wears them
and new ones are carved, some in tongues
that are not remembered, ultraviolet alphabets
read only by the bees. Oh
though we engrave sacred text
on rice grains, though we eat
a thousand bibles, it is not
enough. The hungry wind
still catches our mouths and angels
sail upward like white plastic grocery bags,
oh god of the temporary, lord
of the left behind.