Historiography by Robert Philbin

We are already history.
The past is ancient, the future
arriving daily with another email.
The choices have ended, options

corroded down to zero:
the point from which
something else emerges,
something white like bone,

like a new species of wild
grass blown across the serengeti.
Something like hot air migrating
vegetation up a mountainside

toward the permafrost peaks,
where the dead lingered, preserved,
bog-like, on their way toward another
future, two thousand years ago.