The End Of The World

Here, at the end of the world, the flowers bleed as if they were hearts, the hearts ooze a darkness like india ink, & poets dip their pens in & they write. "Here, at the end of the world," they write, not knowing what it means. "Here, where the sky nurses on black milk, where the smokestack feed the sky, where the trees tremble in terror & people come to resemble them. . . . " Here, at the end of the world, the poets are bleeding. Writing & bleeding are thought to be the same; singing & bleeding are thought to be the same. Write us a letter! Send us a parcel of food! Comfort us with proverbs or candied fruit, with talk of one God. Distract us with theories of art no one can prove. Here at the end of the world our heads are empty, & the wind walks through them like ghosts through a haunted house.