Waiting for the End of the World

situated in remorseful fields. I loved it, I
loved you, following my cockroach-bodied fear.

A devil in every room, holding out our compass,
smoking cloves in plain imagery-

not the redness you expected. This war is cold.
This is Philosophyclass again. I'm unprepared.

The needles point only

to the ends of their fingers.
Now we spend the rest of our lives recalling
2012, the End of the World, ancient. Run back.

Those neon endings, with the joys flapping out

banners of released doves, and there was a day beyond
cluttered white. It begins with a few bright glimpses

of red. You really were grieving. We were frightened--
Nostradamus might be right. Say it now, your mouth

forms a sense of that heaven lost, and it looms there,
spirits itself over cities, confronts and outlined

with a dazzle transparency. This goes on up there, stops
at the threads of our bodies hanging just out of frame.