When I dreamed of the apocalypse, the end
came like a liquefying of the sky, the sunrise
and sunset palettes swirling all together, and
there was also a flood, of course, which reflected
all the colors so that as I looked out of the bay
windows of the tower I was in, all I could
see were magentas mingling with beige
and peach-tones, pale chromes and blues,
dusky pinks. It looked like ice cream
on a summer sidewalk. It looked like an acid
trip, or at least I thought so, never having been on
one myself, and now I'd never have the chance,
I realized, the world coming to an end and all.
It looked like melted Monet. I was gripping
the windowsill so hard it hurt; so, on the count
of three I let go, closed my eyes, reached out,
and dipped my fingers in. The stuff was chilly,
clung to my skin like gloves of quicksilver.
Or slowgold. I haven't been able to shake
that feeling all day: something gilding my hands
as I write. A wild mural I watched being
painted on the other side of somewhere.
That feeling of loss as I closed my eyes to one
world and opened them to another and felt
something slip through my fingers, slick
as oil paint, lucid as smoke, permanent as ink.