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End of Time

Nomi Stone



When the sky's throat slit open, you saw

for the first time constellations

behind those you knew. Meanwhile, as usual,

a people keeps scattering, their libraries

burning. When you ask them,

they explain they simply want to be


on single solid ground, no one forgotten or

lost. Living in this place together must be,

they imagine, the closest thing to the heavens

and earth at last joining. And if in fact there is no

such place, then plant them deep

inside what the sky might allow.




The above poem is an excerpt from Stranger's Notebook (Northwestern University Press, 2008). For more information, please see

A perfectly healthy sentence, it is true, is extremely rare. For the most part we miss the hue and fragrance of the thought; as if we could be satisfied with the dews of the morning or evening without their colors, or the heavens without their azure. - Henry David Thoreau


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