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 ?