A Sense Prophetic.

the towers will liquefy
and rain down over the flame,
fanning every street in endless grids.

a fishnet will capture the earth.

the sunset will split in two
and down into its core
a chill will pass in arctic silver and gold.


just hold it all
in the ocean brimming inside:
a thimble balanced
on your palm, open up to the sky
where deep purple surfaces
have clicked against dark frost glass;

an inkwell drop on projector
that has swirled forever
on the tip of your tongue
flooding the gutters;

or, a slight shift of the eyes
down, all the choices bleed
out noxious air
that solace cannot find,
that black holes cry when lonely.

trembling hands tease the button,
slide the envelope into the furnace—!

the city is campfire silent,
cicadas soon erupt from the neon signs,
and the prophecy is in the glinting stars and planes
handcrafted and made to crash, burn, die.