Poetry is patient
it waits for me
at the end of the world
as I follow my breath
When will this body
no longer be my body?
Where does the light shine
when it shines on itself?
What do you think about
when you think about nothing?
I heard your brother died and
I think
Me too, me too
mine, he did, too
The space in my brain is filled
with mosquitos
that bite my ankles
as I fall asleep
as I try not to panic
while my heart beats so forcibly
that it shakes the bed
Just cover your head with
your arms,
or cover your face with
a pillow,
remember the load bearing walls or
the desks to crouch underneath
I tie old shoes to the bed, I freeze dry
and dehydrate,
I buy earthquake kits
but when the big one comes,
we will probably already be
nowhere to be found
and the poetry will still
be waiting at the end of the world
quietly.