for Jeremy Mende

We all know where we will be a hundred years from now:
beyond the dailiness of this slow panic
and the fear always present behind the look of denial;
beyond worrying about a cure for the ocean;
no longer riding high on this glittering noise
through today and after today and after,
into a place not wished upon ourselves
where at last it might be possible to stop wanting everything

—though why we should ever stop wanting everything,
imagining all there will be, a hundred years from now,
the unknown blessings not wished upon ourselves
but arrived at, invented, devised out of this slow panic
at the way today and after today and after
always follow, somehow unseen by the look of denial
because they come riding high on this glittering noise,
is as hard to fathom as a cure for the ocean: