Yes now, dear readers, we have reached the end:
we’re nuke-riding cowboys plummeting to earth
from frail jets, or stage microphones clicked off
before the bandleader has said his peace,
or secret lovers’ ass-out hug-goodbyes.
Denouements arrive like fidgety pigeons
with notes at their necks but we don’t send back
replies. No time. May now, deep into spring
and buried by flowers. The farewells don’t sting
like you thought — everything circles back
to its entry point but feels less, feels
numbed, feels drugged, clouds like a winter head cold.
The air will settle soon, is already settling,
and all won’t change, never changes, though should it?