Someday I will wake
in this house
(apartment)
on the dawn of apocalypse;
hickeys red upon the sky,
god’s kiss a final blessing.

The shattered windows
will whisper amen for me,
and I will wander the planks
like a blindfolded man
pushed to the waters.

Today I had sung
joy on the brim of my lips,
a libation spilling over
(and partly swallowed by the sinner).
Then I sat,
acquiesced and sober,
to listen to a voice
my mother now loves.

The truth is,
I was never drunk,
Nor was I ever awake.

Eternal dream,
blood in the sky,
monthly right to the comma,
no more water.
Arid. The sky is folding
folding like a wet tissue
cursed,
blessed,
blursed.
It is caving in.

It is caving in.
My mother vanishes.
It is me and you,
uke.
We crash together.
We will drink together
we will swallow the sacrifice
greedily
knowing we should spit it out
and then we will sleep
to the sky
to the moon
which is much less than a crater.

I wish I could
sing with you again.

Shattering of glass
head hitting the pillow
strings twanging when it clatters to the ground
the sky is red red red red
there is screaming. so much of it
that my singing is gone.

(“One way or another,
all four of us are gone now.
Along with the sunlight
and the stars,
we are but pretty pieces
of the snowglobe
within the peppercorn,
that comfortingly
angry,
monolithic,
and ultimately ephemeral
vessel of time.”)

Amen,
amen,
amen.