Soviet Fall
timothy e.g. bartel
November begins with a dream of storm,
Of cloud enscarpments in a crowded sky,
And rolling gusts of bone-grey dust. The world
Would end like that, we guessed: a ring of cloud
Expanding from some central flash, then ash.
Our cowed imagination’s favorite fear
Was thus when that enormous bear could fuss
And trouble from the east.
The bear is joined
By borderless menageries of beasts,
And now we doubt how it will end. There is
No desk to duck within or window to
Avoid. So I will court the apertures
And seats beside their light. Since death will come
For all, I’ll sit where it is wide and bright.
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