End of Time
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 http://nupress.northwestern.edu