Three thousand years from now a critic
will dismiss my recently rediscovered
autobiography as fiction or forgery
—Poetry being anachronistic to that century—
as if I were still sitting at home waiting
to read the reviews and anyway who is he
a critic so what does he know?
I am alive with existential events—excuse me
extinction events on my mind and not
only my own because sometimes I care about
other people, too.
And where will the comma go
if we are all dead? the exclamation point?
What will be left to me when there is nothing
to get excited about?
I had plans to progress (my own anachronism)
but I was told never end poems with questions.