Our myths collect top-shelf dust,
And I am farming black holes in my living room,
Because today the gates of heaven have opened,
Revealing a grasping prehensile maw.
And I know there are forty three years until the end of the world,
And that although the thornbush may answer in pricks,
The fragrant stars have left my lips dry in anticipation
Of a pleasure that will never be forthcoming,
And my hips shiver in memory of a thrust.