The End The man who is writing
the end of the world
began like this: he sat down
in a chair beside a window,
closed his eyes and waited
for the steam to finish rising
from a cup of coffee—
pen and paper resting on
the windowsill, darkness
spreading from behind some
trees outside the window.
The trees are aquamarine.
What kind of trees they
are is unimportant.
What’s important is the way
it’s already begun: how
every night behind his eyes
a few less stars come out.
previously published in Saturday Night Desperate
(Ragged Raven Press, 2003) |
