from Apocalypse Dreams
I did not expect to find myself at the end of the world

camping. But I am and now naturally: the tent peg &

tarpaulin are familiars of many before me, before us. 
A small enough encampment with quick smiles we

don’t believe our hopes for this taut new world

though we speak them out loud with dejected hair.  
Rain here does not clean; it muddies: we feel this as

justice. At the edge of what we have made & believe in

is the thick meniscus, firm & trembling: it is impenetrable
but fragile: a thin sac separating the old world from the new.

I am afraid of our jellied lens, our cervix, through which we

emerged dewy-eyed, behind which the old world carries itself
murky & still in a cradle of watery poison. So it is that life’s

little necessities turn on us as we gulp down. Turn on us, we say

incorrectly. Man undoing his own kindness again and again.