After the Apocalypse
A poem
Concrete precipitates out of freeway overpasses, creating sand dunes from eroding metal shells of forgotten transportation. Listen to the khamsin howl — desert grit rolling down, breaking levers, gears, pitted hulls abandoned before the winds reversed. See with ancient tar eyes bones sunken beneath a hard and frozen crust, and the sudden cascade — disintegration released in water, ticking drops of passage, portals of rainfall, a reckoning focused on renewal — each seed, desire sprawled through a waste of human discards. Between rotted tire treads, greenness yawns a leafy mouth, stretching as he wakes and climbs from brown mother, the shadows of defeat cast behind. Light filters through the flood, coaxing to the heights of men — and his siblings touch the sun.