We build our monuments looming, fortress walls high,
brows and hands sculpted noble. They look down
their noses at the town square, take the long view
of the surrounding valleys. We assume they will
continue to speak for us and hold their own against
forgetfulness. But our descendants see only building
materials, a place to hang laundry. Our empty sarcophagi
water cattle. The young graffiti the flanks of our war horses,
skateboard along our great walls, pulverize the past into
parking lots. And this while some of us still remember.
The geological forgetting will be utter and absolute.

Devon Balwit is a poet and educator from Portland, OR.  Every morning, she uses the height of her dog’s leaps as an oracle to gauge her fortunes for the day, then writes and writes and writes – hoping to produce a thing of beauty.