City people dream the end of the world
country people dream of the city
movies take them where they wish,
to apocalypse, or the bright lights.
I too want an end
a slow outflow, a sighing,
sunflowers sprouting in the check-out aisles
a slow end, a forgetting,
industry shuddering off to sleep.
You put your hand on the teacup
having forgotten all else, forgotten me.
I forget why I’m skimming face down
just above a harvested field
burned brown skin of earth
and I am content not to remember.
Fiberoptic cables curl
into corn floss; buildings blob;
the end is nigh, and then another.
You taste something of the past
so you set the cup down crisply
but its too late, the past is gone for good.
A late sun blooms across your limp train tracks
(noodles of steel),
and you’ve lost all but that smile,
leftover from the world of names.