Here’s a draft of something I’m working on.

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To Be Continued (Ars Poetica)

I expected more from the end of the world. But the
sun came up the following morning. A herd of
pronghorn loiter near Cimarron.
Castle Rock weathers microscopically.
Cars accelerate. Ghost towns
grow small in the rearview.

Coyote says: the world ends
more than you realize.
Last Wednesday makes twice
I know of.

The apes we once were
shivered in the howling moon, wove
gods of fertility and war from their trembling.
The apes we still are
spin plotlines from mud and iron,
vapor and deadwood and
swatches of tattooed skin.

Raven says: harbingers are shiny things,
strung with hair and
flecked with blood.

Fox says: narratives are either
rationalization or conspiracy.
Something happened. Then
something else happened.

The world ends
not with a bang,
not even a whimper, but
with ellipses.