The many become one, and are increased by one.
Ash is in the air
All the little children
are leaving.
Look around you:
the first great migration’s
begun.
There was never a promise
– no rainbow from God –
that we would die in a warm feather bed.
All the businessmen melt,
and the generals huddle.
They’re at their best when the meat begins to boil.
A woman at the spaceport
sniffs the air and spits.
The west wind is coughing pine
muck of old uprooted forests,
tossing the ash like the pieces of hornets.
Then the asphalt heaves,
and the monkeys, pissing, howl!
Taut faces, white teeth,
fist so tight on a leaf that it rattles.
This is not another Ice Age.
Plant your feet — you can feel it all spinning.
This is the doorway
the vortex through the Human.
Something wafts above the stinking hordes,
survives.