when the sky rips open to


white and gold brocaded wings and


torrents of bleached sunlight,
we’ll still be lying on our backs in the grass
watching jets blink in the sky and
counting the stars as they fall open
to watch humanity scramble to extinction


(it seems we can’t get there fast enough).


when the planet supernovas we’ll
be spooning mounds of fresh cream and nectar
into each other’s mouths
and
rolling our eyes and

mocking the world as it whirls by
in psychedelic technicolor retrograde.

we'll be dozing off,
swaying to the heat and the wind,
crossing our fingers behind our backs,
holding our breath with collapsing lungs and sucked-in stomachs.

when the wait for heaven is over
and our eyes stop burning from the rust-colored smell of

sin
and mortality,
we’ll be too bust tracing the lines on our palms
to notice.