You are now approaching planet Earth,
third in ascent from a lesser star
in a tertiary whorl of the Milky Way.
Go ahead, fill your lungs, you
were born to breathe
its atmosphere, designed to survive
its spectrum of sensory textures,
which, like you, no longer conform
to manufacturer’s specifications—
your eyes as delicate as dust, your hair
soft chains of discarded proteins,
your teeth remote cousins to the fang.
Once, you were conjoined with eternity,
your navel a mark to recall transition,
now you will live and die only here,
no other realm or source, no other sun
but that the ancients knew
to be triumphal, its radiance sufficient
to burn its emblem upon your brow.
Stand beneath its fountaining ions.
Feel how narrow the margin is.
—Campbell McGrath
Campbell McGrath’s twelfth book, Fever of Unknown Origin, was published by Knopf in May.
