The Telomere Catechism

Where are the sons who dream bright lights
in the cast-off pilgrimages of their fathers?
Who is it there that blisters now
in the heat and sweat of a dying star?

Where is the change, but in this trashheap madness
in scrawled cardboard signs and duct-tape bandages
in cities chiseled of sacred rock-steel
by soldiers in a cabalistic trance.

Who is this vanguard alien, wiped clean of all indeterminate acids,
the sparkle jewel foam at the edge of a thrashing holocaust wave?
Where is the trial for the assassination of our infancy,
the desperate, anxious, keening beat of our own hearts?

But we are all alone, together,
trapped in a myriad of once, to hold eternal.
Our rapture is the telomere catechism,
and we, beautiful, singing nutrients.

Though we see, but we see.

But my reductionism is cheap,
and it’s everything or nothing.
Dense words to convey a meaningless fear,
and hope locked away in a safe and lifeless place.

But where are the sons who dream bright lights?