Let us laugh at death until our throats get sore.
Let us row to Helgoland, an island
with seven stone gates and seven stone angels
blowing trumpets, or are they trombones,
the slide of God’s left shoulder
announcing the cessation of time,
the end of the known world, as he unhitches the cables
holding Earth in place and lets it drift off into space.
Hello/good-by. Quickly now
before our names drawn in the sand
are washed away. The sky, dying in your arms,
is threatening rain. Tiredness now
and breath with nowhere to climb, but up.