At the end of the world
I want you to stop worrying
about survival and start

collecting– which of the striking
geometric colors will you
harvest first? As power-lines

collide, I think of how they
used to hang men this way: loops
of black cable, moonlight,

and you (not fleeting). Willow
full of sighs, find the big
box full of scribbles you meant

to tell him, keep forgetting.
I wish there was as easy a way
to forget his rush, dark gaze,

green threads to tie to, spool
out like a kite. Even when
his body is gone, his name

lingers with the loam, not fully
buried beneath all the memories
he tries to hide–Un-trust us

with 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.


2 thoughts on “Plots

  1. the first two stanzas hook me. the poem’s persona shows concern for someone “at the end of the world,” and that draws me in because of the caring. this mysterious someone is in great danger (“they/ used to hang men this way”) but has marvelous abilities (“green threads to tie to”). in the last stanza we discover that the being is a “savior”. i surely don’t understand all of this but find myself pulled by the strong images, ending with “but nowhere to lay his head.” it’s a cruel world, but at least there are those who care.

    Liked by 1 person

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