The world is ending.

The ocean has frozen over

and everything above the ocean is alive

and everything below the ocean is dead.


The whole island of Manhattan is underwater

and the Sea of Japan is littered with the carcasses of dead swans.


I saw one perch itself in the branches of the old oak tree,

and heard it whisper to me

about ghosts not being real,

about swans not being able to perch in trees, and

about the world not being able to end

in the wintertime.





I woke up in a bed made of light,

and when I tried to walk,

my legs were attached to stilts

that were tall enough

to let me sit on a cloud.


There are bits of you in my hair.


I am on fire, or,

part of me is. I still don’t know

which part.

All the people in Guernica and Avignon are screaming

and the old oak tree just fell,

in spite of itself.





Have you ever seen a parade, where the floats are full of frozen ocean water?

Me neither.


But I think if I found myself

trapped inside of one of those floats,

I couldn’t be sure


if I was above the water

or below it.