What we know of the end of the world is beautiful. Weightless, even. Mind, media, mixed messages of rebirth and transparent endings. Gods of misfortune. Indecision. (These things exist in the shadows and are nameless.) Mobs, mayhem, sweet monstrosities. Surround the night like armor and are victims of a more perfect future.
The stars are unchained. The sun is a truth that scatters light. Laughter is a body (that dissolves itself in the surrender of your body). And when all the flowers have gone, only one sullen truth remains: everything bears fruit and is a lie.
This poem erases itself in a mirror. Re-educated by time, distillations of sex, wine, and visions of uninterrupted madness. The misdirections of centuries, sandcastles. Light is a fiction and so is philosophy. A language that burns on water. The mysteries of forests are behind us. Afternoon is salt.