Nothing is ever completely still. It jitters
within as its energy begs for a way to transform,
generates heat and seeks to break its bonds;
there are agitants, and all it takes is one.
We were the first generation, the targets,
ignition of a thousand thousand unstoppable reactions,
crowds, clouds, burning rain, flesh sloughing
into trees; we knew, we cheered, we never dreamed
we would fall. After all, those things are
self-contained – once begun, they have
nothing to do with us. Nothing is quiescent,
satisfied. Still. It does not spill. Cold.
Now we are old, and we forgot: to cool
is to fade toward death, the true chaos
that will see us spread, mere atoms again,
smears and specks once suns, soon
skin for another earth, not ours,
no longer. We dreamed order
but did not grasp it. Entropy will prevail.