2 November 2008 | Vol. 8, No. 3
All of the crabshacks are burning,
gulls are circling
the open crates of avocados in the snow
even the earth's gravity.
This must be the judgment. A ladder
reaching us from a nursery of suns
once spun by collisions
along the grazing edge of Sagittarius
and the Milky Way. The plate galaxies
had not been so lucky. Bill Knott,
that lovely man, who nudged Jim Wright
back from the string of leopard trout, says
a calendar is just a colander,
just an anxious hourglass— water
trading for sand,
sand trading for oil. Now, is this
the end in stone wheeling above our heads, the
of the fat Chinese sow-dog?
Say it slowly with peace in your heart,
"I sure the fuck hope not."
About the author:
Norman Dubie's most recent collection of poems, Insomniac Liar of Topo, was just published by Copper Canyon Press. He lives in Arizona.