Black glove at my neck- the end of the year.
Those lovers were soldiers, bed spies,
bombs of leg losing, the mind dropping in one blow.

Masters of bullets, sacred sabotage, reasons why
I listened to the radio blaring the sweet song
of someone else’s bad news.

Voices of valleys in the distance,
sinking at the notice of runaway trains,
the apocalypse-what little we know of it,
the quiet contemplation of last night’s champagne.

I search for any light in the flickering distance,
as the sound of the unknown approaches.