The Striking Line

There are final days
Not post apocalyptic dysphorias
But quieter
where the world doesn’t fall down
but hangs
on its hinges
The chasm.
The bedprint, a scholar of your edges.
The sun breathes out.
This morning, you were here;
next, there
and the distance
stretched taut, a line striking through the final day
and beyond, a hurtling star out
into the cold, into nothingness
I hold on; I hold,
unravel, dust and trails
until a last spark, and then
the dark, the dark.