deepundergroundpoetry.com
This Is the Year When
This is the year when the sun dies
When the moon is ripped
From her gravitational moorings
And is no more.
No more risings, settings,
Waxing, waning
There will be no more of that
No more signs in sun, in moon.
This is the year when trees,
Should they still be here,
Will fall soundlessly in forests
As stars wink out in stupefaction
And children are eternally the precise age
When the extinction event
Slithers and slices into nonexistence
At the very last moment of gasp
When the molting raven croaks Nevermore.
Let it not be in winter
When the final trumpet blares out
Its tin-earred tune to inattentive ears.
Nor in Spring when daffodils
Array themselves in the audacity of yellow,
Uncurling langourously as they resurrect
Once again from frozen earth, O foolish flowers.
Or summer when the days grow unbearable
And suddenly stop and the air conditioners
Are all superannuated, no matter how new,
No matter how creaky, how aged
Even as I am creaky, cranky, aged.
As I stare one last time at leaves
Blushing in Autumn forests about to be silenced
As Winter comes hobbling, lurching,
Swinging the scythe which slices blindly
Through all my denials and imputations
My alibis stacked in round-room corners
Unread, discarded, in dust scattered profusion.
Let it be, then. I have seen enough.
The end comes lurching around yonder bend
And what does it matter if it bears dank oblivion
Since there is no longer where nor when.
When the moon is ripped
From her gravitational moorings
And is no more.
No more risings, settings,
Waxing, waning
There will be no more of that
No more signs in sun, in moon.
This is the year when trees,
Should they still be here,
Will fall soundlessly in forests
As stars wink out in stupefaction
And children are eternally the precise age
When the extinction event
Slithers and slices into nonexistence
At the very last moment of gasp
When the molting raven croaks Nevermore.
Let it not be in winter
When the final trumpet blares out
Its tin-earred tune to inattentive ears.
Nor in Spring when daffodils
Array themselves in the audacity of yellow,
Uncurling langourously as they resurrect
Once again from frozen earth, O foolish flowers.
Or summer when the days grow unbearable
And suddenly stop and the air conditioners
Are all superannuated, no matter how new,
No matter how creaky, how aged
Even as I am creaky, cranky, aged.
As I stare one last time at leaves
Blushing in Autumn forests about to be silenced
As Winter comes hobbling, lurching,
Swinging the scythe which slices blindly
Through all my denials and imputations
My alibis stacked in round-room corners
Unread, discarded, in dust scattered profusion.
Let it be, then. I have seen enough.
The end comes lurching around yonder bend
And what does it matter if it bears dank oblivion
Since there is no longer where nor when.
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