smacking on biscuits lathered in horse butter
off the atchafalaya river, we stare into the sun,
setting as it does atop the horizon. late stages
of societal collapse have given these sunset
unreal hues; silver, opal white wisps, violent purples,
black masses with gold ribbon filigreed throughout.
they say back in the day this river was thinner,
not miles wide everywhere. they say it was less
viscous, and the water wouldn’t melt your skin
through contact. it’s good to have spread with
protein on hard bread. a body of dronejets burns
overhead, so high they are a quiet roar,
the kind aircraft makes from miles up. you hold my hand–
squeeze my hand and smile. my hand feels solid and warm
in your hand as we stare out across the slick, greasy murk
of the river. this century is almost half-over, the clock is three
seconds from doomsday they say. “back in the day people
rode horses, didn’t eat ‘em,” you say, and I laugh at the absurdity
of history. the looming wave, it promises to crash
over us all. we must repeat it, whether or not we’re aware.