Nov 23, 2010

When I Think of the End of the World Now

Written by James Crews

Read by Steve Kronen

I can’t help but see the first few crocuses that will
somehow shoot through the layers of ash

like fingers still tender and bright enough to redeem
the particulate drizzle that will no doubt keep

staining our expectant faces as we huddle in cellars,
under overpasses, crouching on hazmat pallets

and wondering how to fill the silences piling above us
like stricken snow. I think of Pavlov sweating

on his deathbed, requesting nothing but a bowl of mud
from the creek near his boyhood home in Ryazan

where he sailed newsprint yachts and packed pies
so thick his mouth would water for days after.

And when he cradled that dish of earth, he must have
sighed, smiling, sinking both hands deep into memory

so his fever had no choice but to break. I think of you
and hear the last yellow line train sparking to a stop

beneath your bedroom window on Killingsworth, that
voice always warning, Doors are closing. I wish I could

go back now and tape the wolfish sounds we’d make
when we made love, though I know or say I know

there may never be a way to replay them.