Apocalyptic poems, posted every m-f.

the orchard

they walk for thirty days
a moon and change,
encounter many things they do not wish to speak of

the hull of a young man,
a nest of rodents safe and dry in his ribcage

the crater, lined with dolls and crude crosses –
other reminders and mementos

the burning mountain, rung by nudists,
chanting, fucking in plain sight, bleeding out in the name of unsightly gods

on the thirtieth day,
as promised,
they find it – the orchard
twelve trees still living, nine birthing fruit

they eat like kings, for at least a week,
and forget about all of the things that they’d seen


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