Like a constipated
mule, the old man
limps toward me
saying, The end is
near—the words
sliding from his mouth
like congealed bacon
fat, then the young
woman emerges from
the churning sea—her
auburn hair, alabaster,
almost translucent
naked skin, fearless
like thunder, casting
a long shadow—The
world ended long
ago, she says, and
we walk onto the
emerald green great
lawn, her in the old
man’s cerulean
sky-colored overcoat,
and she points to the
tower—figures falling
from its large windows—
Fear of truth, she asserts
referring to the bodies
smashing like overly ripe
melons on the ground,
then she says, Your
classroom is on the
sixth floor, and as I
open the heavy door
she states, The class
is on how unnecessary
the class is—then adds
Be alert. Stay aware.
Be vigilant. Always
look inward and
please do try and not
stumble or trip near
an open window, sir.