When we write stories about an apocalypse, it is usually because we are living through one.

No zombies this time

But someone had to light the first match

And someone has to raise earth

From its flattened ashes.

When the destroyers,

the children of dissatisfaction grieve this place,

will it feel sorry for us?

When the world starts over, who will hold its calloused tongue until its first word is something greater  

than  “more”  

and its first taste is something more limitless

than sky