The World Does End
Your father was the smoke of a brushfire.
He left you sweeping up the empty field.
The sky opens like a broken glacier. You cover
up your face with hands made of glass. The river drops
thinly at the ocean’s feet. You put your deaf
ears to the stars: the sky’s stolen
your constellations. The trees ask
for your name in the throat of a winter morning.
In the rush, your breath falls as if there’s a jaw
waiting for it.
—
But there isn’t. And the night
is the blackest feather.
And the stars sometimes
whisper.
—
You can have the rain but not the sky.
Because the horse knows who breaks
him. The way the lake knows who’s drowned
for her. It wasn’t your mouth but the spider
that had seen enough: the shore, sunless,
and a viper on your tongue. The shadows brush
the pines. Or is it the fire that’s brushed? The sky’s blood-
letting; but you could ask of the stars—if they keep
whispering—for the secrets
you know they’re telling.