I did not hear the world had ended; ears
are long broken, sonar pedestrian at best, with feeble gasps
at sound unless I grant them tinny mechanical aid
and the world ended on a day when my batteries
were dying: with an insistent chime
at the worst possible moment.

I did not hear the sky crack open; felt
it, yes, like one feels a rock guitar splitting one’s sternum
a punch that knocks the wind and spirit clear
from its casing, and not turning around saved my sight
when the sky caught fire and buildings crumpled
like leaves.

I did not hear authoritative voices
call in every language humans had invented, and could
not tell you what they said, save they
were large, and angry
and had strong opinions about this species
of rodents which had infected a long
dying world.

I did not hear the skylark or the sparrow
singing. When I’d first acquired my aids, I’d walked around
my neighborhood in fear as though we were under attack;
trills and shrieks abounding from all angles.
I do not hear them now, and suspect their song
has ended.

I did not hear my cellphone, trying to buzz me
from my fugue, staring at the horror of crumpled
buildings, crumpled
bodies, birds falling like acid rain from a sky
the color of cinders, trying to claw the charnel stench
of the end of the world from my nose.
I sneezed

and then I wondered whether I’d be fit
to live in their eyes, if they have eyes
if they would find me fit enough
for whatever purpose they intended for our species
the way I was sometimes fit in my own eyes--
or whether they’d allow for me to plea my case

if I’d hear their judgment
or if the end
of the end
would be as much of a surprise
as the way the end began.