The end of the world is a strange and beautiful place. It keeps growing, and it keeps ending. And as it ends, it gives birth to countless new beginnings. Eyes open, eyes close, eyes open again. Galaxies and atoms. Oceans and tufts of grass. A little boy’s pockets turned inside out for the wash. What he remembers. What he loses. What he collects. Where have you been? his kind mother asks. To the end of the world. Who would have guessed? Well, then. I’m glad you’re back.
Deep inside my pocket, wild chamomile and a prairie sunset.
Poems, Slightly Used, March 6, 2009
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Categories: Poems, Slightly Used