Apocalypse

We wake and feel our town around us,

immutable as faith, resilient

as the night sky, for the lights in Times Square

have shone forever and will not go out.

We laugh at cave art and the foolish dead

who endured darkness before the world began

for they have missed the best of everything.

Our father’s gone but mothers do not die.

And when our mother dies, we find a rock.

Inside that rock the world will never end.

We turn our backs upon the crumbling cliffs

and throw our rock into the deathless sea.

On Facebook, Notre Dame went up in flames

and languages are dying every day.

Your microwave is on the fritz again

and worms are growing fat with famous men.

Three hundred years from now, who will wake up

to sing this tuneless hymn of confidence?

The night sky will have shifted half an inch.

Whose are those hand prints on the shattered wall?