Catalogue for the Aftertime

There seems to be a growing number 
of works in which we write about ourselves 
in a future that outlives us. In the act of writing 
this way, at least we get to mourn what we'll 
be unable to mourn because at that time,  
we will for sure have perished. The catalogue 
and the dictionary are making a comeback.
The names of things are most beautiful on the verge
of disappearing. We don't sound them out only in 
our mouths—they rise up from the salt flats 
in our chests, the dusty villages at the far reaches 
of our feet, the humid rainforests in our lungs. 
The silver leaf mouse, the dwarf cloud rat, 
the emerald fly-catcher, the shy brown deer.