These could be our last days.

We could meet our end tomorrow

With the dull incomprehension

Of hooked fish,

Pieces of Kentucky Fired Chicken

In our open mouths.

Then the wide, straight roads

That led us here

Would crack and decay

To nothing.

The trees would stand in the quad,

Blasted and poisoned,

Watched for us

By the eye of God.

And only He would remember

How the van Goughs and the Plaths

Made their long, hard deaths

A swan song;

The way we walked on the Moon

And built Samarkand; the way,

When Autumn leaves fall to the ground,

For the briefest while

They dance in the sky.