When steel cranes dropped the last nuclear power plant on the city
your origami heart burst like a glass ball 

which Ted Nugent’s high C capes into shiny emptiness. yes. that’s how it started:
a film in which a woman, a vulgarly fit young woman, 

finds her lost half, yes, that’s how it started.
a street turned into Finland, the northern fleet made of paper 

swallows the asphalt faster than the cracks the earth sends
from inside to make it smile, an executioner, cuts sharp replies 

like fingers; the air so transparent I want to see it. absence,
the poem’s main feature, makes way for the bodies of children, who retreated 

back into houses, carefully, after one call. the smell of just flushed water which,
a bellhop on cocaine, tirelessly goes up, hides, in nostrils  

founds a disgustingly liberal syndicate, in the end stays calm, for a second, somewhere high,
and falls down again. absence. a triumphal vacation which you never take. 

tea: crumbs dipped into teeth and the surface that stood still is on the move,
our halves find us or remain hidden. all that is real surpasses us. 

voice, your own narrator, says that you are now complete
in a safe tone it moves across the canvas, like a psychoanalytic Buddha, and knows 

knows that all is never lost. a rhetorical corkscrew that pierces your eyes. sucks your
brain out, that’s how it ends. all the psychoanalysts and zombies and Buddhists the moment they appear 

destroy every attempt at an end. only Christians are worse. even after the Apocalypse
something happens.