| Bon Voyage, Apocalypse by Janie Hofmann |
The orange sky rippled, scraped the horizon
with tangy lust. Your father's clock,
made from old thermometers and a coffee tin,
rusted as time wavered like a new born
dragonfly ready to rip through the reeds
of the slime gilded swamp we once called Eden.
The Newton rings, their green-purple sheen
electric in the freshly radiated atmosphere
as you rested on the black roots of an upturned
cypress.
This the result of us all being guilty of nothing
more than mutiny, dead spirits and coal town
dreams.
And at the very end, a stream we could not see
infected
the leaf rustled air with a syncopation that dug
into our sad, dry dry hearts.
with tangy lust. Your father's clock,
made from old thermometers and a coffee tin,
rusted as time wavered like a new born
dragonfly ready to rip through the reeds
of the slime gilded swamp we once called Eden.
The Newton rings, their green-purple sheen
electric in the freshly radiated atmosphere
as you rested on the black roots of an upturned
cypress.
This the result of us all being guilty of nothing
more than mutiny, dead spirits and coal town
dreams.
And at the very end, a stream we could not see
infected
the leaf rustled air with a syncopation that dug
into our sad, dry dry hearts.
