1
07
2007
Of Perhaps Armageddon
It was not the time of morning for chashing dreams
like slippery fish tails
or shaking the shadow of her, forever enshrined
in perfection.
The wheels crackle the gravel
as she pulls away and
Summer gels into autumn slowly
like an artery hardening.
Though it is the morning of the evening
of perhaps armageddon, I still bother
to straighten the sheets,
fluff the impression of her head from the
pillow, and mask our encounter
under a peach comforter
of quilted down.
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