to look up
at the sky
in a contemplative kind
of way,
from the corner
of its blue mouth,
the little crescent planet
furtively whispered down to me—
Pssssst,
hey kid—
no, you're
not imagining
things. The world you live in
really is ending—all
over and
as long as it's
not imagining
things. The world you live in
really is ending—all
of the time, in
fact.
It's
only
the one
you live on—
that just keeps going,
always rolling
over so sleepily
and dim, ignorantly starting
over and
over and over
again! I've seen it,
though
you probably
never will.
And then, after a silence,
through another sharp
exhalation of invisible
interstellar air—
From up here, it looks like
the faces
of those
of those
people you meet
whose lips
say—of course
you know this means war!
when you can tell
that their eyes
don't really
mean that at all—because
the very elements
in their bones
know—for a fact, that
given enough
time, everyone
everywhere
can have what they
want. Do you follow?
This isn't really happening,
I thought—
You're not really
talking.
I'm making
this up.
But then, made up
or not, I caught—
Psssst,
at least don't forget—
anything
could be true,
could be true,
as long as it's
not everything—
all at once.
