By Richard Mather
Earth tilts and substance crumbles.
Objects strain at the seams, crack, come off hinges,
decohere, liquefy, dissolve into atoms.
Sparrows cry “hosanna,” throw themselves at moving cars;
a lone fox leaps to his hole, moans like a saxophone;
the buzzard twists his head in disbelief, picks over pieces,
turns corpses, flies away.
I sit small and still, like a closed fist,
hear the stars howling as their sunbulbs
flash and burn for the final time.
I am suspended in a void, the only constant body
in a vast black field of absolute unimaginable nothingness.
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