Springtime in Apocalypse (I)

Springtime in Apocalypse (I)


The belly of that robin is almost glowing.

He is singing, I am sure; but I can’t hear him.

The bush outside this window softly nods agreement;

   the one that rarely stirs, sheltered against the house.

The wind has shifted.

The sun still shines,

   reflected in a tangy glow on the walls of the neighbors’ houses,

      which stand just where they were yesterday.

So far so good.


Niles has changed the spelling of his name: N-I-H-I-L-S .

“If you can’t beat ’em, join him,” he says.

What would I change my name to?

I aspire to another sort of annihilation;

   from the inside out, like the caterpillar’s.


It would not have letters, this name.

Letters are noisy; they are meant to be.

And words are rusty gates.

How do you spell                     ?







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