by Matt Nagin
Artwork, “Figure from Met” by Howard Skrill
How many days do you have left? How long will your nights
stretch on? How many times can you ask yourself these
strange, impenetrable questions?
When will the aneurysm burst? The parrot grow silent?
Our sun detonate in a kaleidoscope of majestic uncertainty?
When will clocks run backwards? Nights crash into a depraved,
fuliginous moon? When will you walk home sideways, your
future conquered equally by abandonment and seduction?
When will the apocalyptic grin peer menacingly over the
edge of a cryptic horizon?
