Apocalyptic poems, posted every m-f.


we will stand under a barely-breathing elm,
and you will tell me, “life is a lot like this tree.”

i will ask you what you mean, and you will take a seat
fumble at a tin can with a rusted knife,

you will look at that tree, as if thinking
open your mouth, as if beginning to speak –
i will wait for silent minutes
wondering if perhaps you’ve entered another of your spells,
you will answer, pointing a finger at those branches-gone-static,
“so long as the trunk is alive,
nothing has died.”

maybe in the future, when i hear this,
i will understand what you mean

in my moment, as i sit,
this vision is opaque to me


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