REM Stage 6: A Poetry Blog || julie niklas

The morning after the world ends
all the sighs left on the tundras
and savannas and plateaus
will converge and rehearse
like an entire brass symphony of
white elephants

and the sound will be deafening.

Acoustics will never have been
so good.

Jupiter will lean back in his ancient
sulfurous armchair
and applaud,
hawing in baritone about how he
didn’t see that clincher coming.

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