At the end of the world, I want
you to stop worrying about survival
and start collecting–which of
the beautiful geometric colors
will you harvest first?
Even when his body is gone,
his name lingers with the loam,
not fully buried beneath all
the memories he tries to hide–
untrust us, with the gray eyes,
we devour the empathetic, brave,
and open. Watch for the hunt,
moon-eyes, soft fangs…
It starts once the savior switches
forms: topiary skull garnished
in daisies, but nowhere to lay his head.