The End of the World
The End of the World

God must have spilled his box of paints today,
I think, I'm fooled by the dream into believing
the end of the world is nigh: the cloudy yellow sunset
an ash plume or a mushroom cloud,
then the sky a rainbow, pastel
blues and pinks and golds
dusted with white stars,
two little silver cups
for moons, a red sun
always setting yet never hiding,
last a comet, a long cloudy stream of milk
turn suddenly vapor -- I'd woken up
only to fall asleep again.

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