Nothing, as in no one thing,
will last longer than things
as a whole. But nothing
lasts forever. It is a paradox
that Larkin may have likes,
may have reflected on while
reflected in the tabernacle or
while standing knee-deep in
stained light through similar
windows. Or maybe it's one of
the many fears that kept Keats
from much-needed sleep;
the mark you make essentially is
writ in water; in the glass on your nightstand
or on the lake where your friend died.
"Things fall apart; the center cannot hold."
Yeats knew it, too. The void of
space stretches into eternity, and
when the world ends, that is what remains:
the cool, sweet solidity of nothing, staring back at nothing, forever.