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We write each other memos
From our separate eschatons:
Flood to fire, loss to drought,
Cancerous overgrowth to slow crumbling.
We reach our disparate endings
At a dash, staggered starts, no podium.
We send reassurance: the wolf
Has not yet eaten the sun here—
There is time, though maybe not much,
To blow a different horn, burn a different bridge,
Reach a different Ragnarok. If not together,
At least allied. At least connected.
[Editor’s Note: Publication of this poem was made possible by a gift from Melody Hawkins during our annual Kickstarter.]