What if I tell you I’ve seen the future and that
the sun forgets to come up tomorrow?
Who will call her from her grave in the sky?
Will it be you?
Will you stand on the mountains of the world
and call us all to mourning?
Or will you cry you are ready for morning?
We reach with greedy fingers
to clutch the universe like a blanket, to pull it back
and expose the soft stuff underneath.
The sun will run to the other side of the galaxy,
cowering in a corner, hugging her knees.
She will cry perfectionist tears of having disappointed everyone
this one day, one day of all days.
You’ll have to heave her onto your shoulders
and carry her back to us,
burning all the way.
Atlas, when he comes around,
will turn from you in disgust.
How entitled we are, to expect so much.
How rabid our need to be guaranteed
this sunrise, this turn of the axis,
this glass of ice water and
this peeled orange and
this hand over yours,
this fleck of dust suspended
in a single beam of light.