Monumentalibis
The truth of things likes to hide —
occasionally you may spot it —
hovering near your driveway
or starving in the woods.
—
Every feeling conceals it.
Isolation is its last disguise.
It spreads so far in every direction
even nature drowns in despair.
—
When the impossible flood arrives,
the promise breaks and opens up
the snail-horn perception of Death —
the sole beginning of thought;
shock to analogy,
necessary halting,
last breath before the event:
life.
—
Absolute destruction is the only way
to embrace the possible.
—
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Just this one Necessity:
this crucifix,
this mushroom cloud,
this wrecking ball,
this crumbling wall,
this benign wave of desolation,
affecting only the most distant
so them becomes I
and you cannot respond.
—
The event never happens elsewhere,
always without alibi,
missing nothing
save every beyond.
—
Here, between the city and the ancient grove,
the department store and the prison,
the garbage and recycling cans,
the ibis dutifully records
the decline of civilization,
inscribing the cataclysm within.
—
A worse death thrives
if there is no flood.
