I can’t wait to see how the world ends
because the template for apocalypse looks
the same every time: cataclysm chased
by silence. Movies, novels, television shows,
the guys in rags and incense on the platform
at 23rd Street? I suspect they’re wrong, that
things won’t be so dramatic. Someone says
our hearts need crushing when we’re young
because adults won’t spring back whole.
There’s a machine at the junkyard that reduces
a car to the size of a steamer trunk and I
was born inside it. The collapse of the planet
will be tediously slow. Find a partner, hold on
to a lonely stranger, kiss, cuddle, make love,
do whatever you must in order to feel safe.
When the rain starts, it will be for the last time.