I heard divinity is found
in the seed pod of a poppy—
though I know the words rolling
flat off my tongue, my grill
of nickel wound strings,
are a chest tremor, a funeral

where eternity and so forth
is granted—so I don’t mind
when heads turn away or feet
leave as I speak. I heard 
the apocalypse will end
in sewers, missiles destroying

the surface, the crops, buildings,
coyotes, even the swarms 
of insects and men splintering 
themselves to loss. When living 
beneath the ground, in the concrete
of the world before, I’ll be heard as reverb.