The arc of history bends just right,
like the look she gave me last night.

It’s a bow and arrow, shooting far;
part flood, a boat a la mar.

An ark on an arc, filled two by two;
a couple coupled to create you.

The ark doesn’t sail on solar wind.
It draws its power from pistons pinned.

The arc is a sea of constant nexts,
the ark is the moment propelled by sex.

Grand as it seems best not forget,
Progress can’t be made if we don’t beget.

This is a tongue-and-cheek piece about the tension between the important and the trivial. In the end, even the grandest thing boils down to its component parts. While perhaps mocking the self-importance of human history, it also expresses awe at the power of conception.

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