I’ve been up days talking god down from his tree,
scraping my skullsides for more sky,
and now, eating beans from the tin,
I await dawn,
eavesdropping on distant disasters.
Sit beside me on the ledge of the night,
and please don’t fear the bottles exulting against the rocks.
We court little dangers to remember the big one.
I have seen the future,
but it’s the future we’ve all seen.
The power will go out.
will go out.
But shh shhh:
let the joke tell itself,
while electricity still trickles in,
and I bumble a tune on the guitar that unwinds time,
in this calm before the catastrophe.
Soon I’ll scuttle into darkness,
a skewered beetle,
the skewer tip scraping pavement
as I disappear into history,
leaving only my voice
enveloped in silence,
a sepia drop
oozing over white flowers
on the wallpaper
of someone else’s imagination