I hope for an unimaginable species
        requiring epiphanies to describe,
        but every word’s a sin against truth,
        every line a struggle to be honest,
        every syllable a pitfall.
        Defeat must be welcomed,
        as artists know, bitterness
        must bless apples and humble us,
        help us to understand
        we’re not the ultimate of anything
        we’re seasoning, foretaste,
        interim creatures, intervals
        drunk on disrepute,
        the scent of our disrespect,
        angry to be mortal, operatically ashamed.
        The best we can do is open our arms
        to the species coming in.