Apocalyptic poems, posted every m-f.

constable

let me tell you the only story i know about manitoba

it was a bad and rusty morning,
the last of the neighborhood trees had recently succumbed to
the ashen haints, and stood there
boring and dead

the way the frost peaked the muddy tire tracks
up the south ridge,
it looked sentient and malicious

it clung to every little gravel dot
every scattered twig
every eyelash on joshua’s face
which lay, along with the rest of him,
in the mud

he was splayed such that
if he were standing
he would be waving hello,
except that he would not be waving, in his state,
he would be trying to hold his guts in

guts aside, joshua was known for keeping things –
empty tin cans, his word, the peace

this story is interesting because it is also another story, a bigger one:
there was no war in manitoba, and then this happened, and then there was.

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