This Time

As the elephant lumbers, trunk slightly swaying

like a vaguely disinterested, doped-up

and harmless python,

its earthquake feet breaking up already cracked soil,

its skin beyond the help

of any cosmetic surgeon’s best efforts,

well, as I said, as the elephant lumbers,

what must it make of the surging psychopaths

who attack it with the intention

of turning its tusks into a variety

of mantelpiece ornaments, or musical instrument components,

or even the tops of bloody walking sticks?

The world moves more slowly for the lumbering elephant

than it does for us frantic lunatics,

in the same way that it moves more slowly

for the frantic psychopath

than it does the fly.

We kill them, too.

No matter how big or small,

no matter what end of the time relativity scale

you perceive existence from,

we will kill you all.

And, when we’ve finished with our extinction projects,

for our coup de grace, we shall kill ourselves.