pot of the big bang
how many people will I know by the time I'm sixty? how many vultures will peck at the shadow of my footprints, eroding on so many inconsequential shores? and how many of those vultures will ascent to valhalla when the heavens call them back? what will they say then, whose blood will swirl in the absence of their bellies?
ice will smear the world in a cold, feminine gesture, so that the deserts will wrap themselves in a silver blanket and usher in dreams; so flowers stretch into their own fossils and sigh back into sleep. at the fine line between a perfect silence and the end of everything, we will be buried in the permafrost with two fingers puncturing the floor in an ancient tea salute. our lips will be pressed tight, skin against stone, love against time, day against night.
people are disappearing from my life like water from a solitary puddle.
ice will smear the world in a cold, feminine gesture, so that the deserts will wrap themselves in a silver blanket and usher in dreams; so flowers stretch into their own fossils and sigh back into sleep. at the fine line between a perfect silence and the end of everything, we will be buried in the permafrost with two fingers puncturing the floor in an ancient tea salute. our lips will be pressed tight, skin against stone, love against time, day against night.
people are disappearing from my life like water from a solitary puddle.