Tell me, in the days before the end, what did you dream?
I was paralyzed at the threshold, I felt the wind through the door but I could not look.
How did you recognize the end days?
Each mast a spine—–the rigging made a bone-music when the wind blew, when the sails were down—–
I couldn’t remember why I walked back in my office—–it was like a dream, the way the student waiting in the hall said, ‘It’s neurological, the way you walk into a room and forget why you entered—–’
I didn’t believe the Master when he said the moon was dead.
Beef, coffee, chocolate—–didn’t we burn the world?
I’ll put on the pig mask and pose against the barnyard back-drop.
When the smoke cleared, what was left?
Foghorns, their ghost-moan of warning, though the ships were battered and gone.
from "A Still Fog. A Flat Sea" -- poetry collaboration with Jon Davis
© Likestarlings 2009–2015 ·
http://www.likestarlings.com/poems/jon-davis-dana-levin/#3