I break the hour glass against the wall
because the minute hands have always
functioned better as a way
to mark the waiting.
I’ve seen an entire flock of birds
go and impale itself on just a single
cactus standing lonely on a dune.
It might have been a mirage
but what’s the difference between
that and how the glass leaves
behind gashes on my hands.
So many people now are rooting for
the world to end and they might see
those wishes fall before them one night
staring at the fire place now empty.
She throws her coat over her shoulders
like black feathers falling just within her reach
and leads me out into the blizzard
where I cannot see the porch light
or the moon.
She knows it all is over soon
and wants to be with me
when it all happens, and the sky is clear,
just one more time,
before we cover up the heights
we are afraid of.