White weather, chalk and basalt,
puffins, fuchsia and history shot
through with particles
of recogniton: this one
wetted down with petrol then
set alight, that one taking
forty rounds, this other
found eleven years later in a bog.
In the station house, imaginary
maps, smoke chased by wind, a registry
of arrivals, the logs of ghost
ships and a few prison
diaries written on tissue paper.
-CAROLYN FORCHÉ
My friends cuddle on couches
fixated
as the end of the world transpires
somewhere else.
The last image seen
before death
is rarely hopeful
