The light in his eyes discernible from here to high hold and I could have heard his screams from here to my farm.

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1.

Let it not be said that we didn’t see it coming,
or that we didn’t try.

Recall Shiva, ash smeared and towering death, 
conjured by fire in Alamogordo.
Recall physicists turned watchmakers,
guilt growing like a Hiroshima cancer.

Recall peace parks,
Sunday marches,
palm fronds,
banners, digital petitions,
the changing of a profile photo to a declarative sign.
Such conviction as a dove!

Recall how we, with such resolve, attempted salvage,
tried to pull the body from the wreck,
or if not, to perform our most honest sorrow as it burned.

2.

And the end, slow and tumorous,
will come not with a bang
nor however many billion whimpers either.

Will come with no screech of nails on glass,
no holy stone to swing at the skull,
no keening grief.

Will come not with eulogies
but a long and welcome quiet,
with none to mourn the passing,

of all this meat that learnt to speak.

When all this speaking into being is done

I will show you a river in which men will,
          when looking for strange metal, 
                     find only other rivers.

Will have found reason again to unstitch
          all matter and cast what’s left
                      as sand to oceans.

Will have emptied myself of all noise,
         and stood silent, as polished
                  bones and breath alone.

Will come, femur deep in slow waters
         clacking metacarpals curled,
                 supplicating, then still.

Will break-connectives disassembling,
           collapse absent of all cohesion,
                  sink, having given up all grammar

and will be again a river,
             full only,

                 of other flooded rivers.

Another taste of this ludicrous project…

You might remember I posted recently about a post apocalyptic verse novel I’m working on… If not… Well… I’m working on a post apocalyptic verse novel (and now you’re up to speed).

Anyways, thought I’d drop another drafty piece on this bloggy thing to give you lovely people another taste. As always, feedback is welcome!

These set aside things

How we, having then good reason
to look up, and speak smiling,
named each waking planet and star,
each spark, born again each night.

How your fingers would unfold
from fists into the blue light,
imagining if only they
would stretch a little higher,

they could pluck and hold
whole stars, whole engines
of hydrogen and fire
in your tiny palm.

How one night, I saw you reaching,
as Prometheus, thief of fire,
towards a waking Venus,
and saw jealous Zeus for what he was.

How I slept in splayed dreams
haunted by thump of eagle wings,
til you woke next morning singing
wonders to diamonds in the sky.

Now we, broke open and thin,
have set aside such things.
Now, under a sky thick
and malignant, our livers

turn to dust, and regrow daily
as ghosts. We, looping iterations of
long dead myth, are bone poems,
we are spoken-only selves.

These songs- fast fading echoes,
from when we sought out proof of gods
in the grey indifference
of distant spinning rocks.