Everything is the end
of the world but really
there’s only so much sadness I can
line this poem with. In the end, picture me
as I picture myself, standing in a river
shivering and stupid, or in a casket
filled with the gleaming baubles of big
pharma, and maybe it leaks and everyone within a hundred kilometres
experiences so much
reuptake
or picture me the best I looked
last time I saw you.