Apocalypsis

Shots of angry Dawn®
reach my lips, snaps of peach
and a bit o’ vermin-tail. The women
gargoyle about the buff blinds, chains
of barbed-wire tinkle from their bras.
It’s love, the same
harsh distance as igneous
shards, rock love–
the land it’s spewed up on. In my dream
of the apocalypse, this molten stream
of steel breathes a steam of burnt
bodies: flesh made
ethereal in the moment of a shell-
shocked jubilation. What motivates us
is nothing. What moves
us is the cold, stale
scent of the void.

–E.W. Wilder

---