Apocalyptic poems, posted every m-f.

montreal

in montreal,
the buildings slowly sink and tilt,
decrepit

youngsters tear up the pavement between their homes,
shallot and carrot and chard
where once there had been machines

the old ones cultivate their ghosts,
they wait for mary to return
they are happy in their melancholy.

this is the future,
same as it ever was.

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