Jan/Feb 2011 Poetry

Apocalypse for One

by Zoë Gabriel

Apocalypse for One

It may seem merely sad,
but the cup waiting
to be washed, the view
over rooftops, the book
read over meals,
the small bag of trash are
as banal as empires.

Stringing together wars
and other disasters,
I live perched
between the everyday forest
and the industrial wasteland.

All I can hold on to
is this bag of skin and bones,
these sticks and stones,
a clutch of indefinite words.
Every jewel is hollow at heart.


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