EARTHBORNE ONLINE POETRY MAGAZINE

THE NEXT MINUTE

 

Pre-dawn, and the stars fusing.

Nighttime, a charred earth,

the chthonic wed to the celestial,

time swallowing the rag of the world,

the Great So-on moving toward a future

stoppered with indefinite cold.

 

Then furnace-roar,

the imperfect vacuum sullied,

a planet spoiled,

compromised by Man,

by mankind-of’s maniacal humours

and greed for invention.

 

Wind, where there is no wind.

Rain hammering elsewhere and when.

Fine citizens rehearsing

their star role in the dirt’s theatre.

 

You want to sleep for a thousand years.

You want to sit still in a room,

time tucked in at the corners,

the house as quiet as a moonbow,

the next minute blood-simple.

 

You want to endure the instant forever.