She cracked a smile when she heard the world was going to
end, and
even if you stepped down from borrowing ears
to lock eyes with the enemy's emissary,
weight upon her words would press them too thick
to slip through fractured lips,
excepted by whisper—
"Macro to micro, they have means to kill you"
as she sucks her herbals. Or
checking her memo almanac, "for
Tuesday a riot, Wednesday
Stacy's playdate, Thursday a plague,
and Friday, maybe still time
to drink coffee and watch two thousand twelvemonths
disintegrate.
She was one of those turning things back,
her back to the future wreckage, homeward bound
by faith in ghosts, sometimes
an immodest prayer group, sometimes
lottery tickets on her lucky days.
Minor matters to bother the moderns,
after all they offered her
nothing.
She heard just the bubblehead babble
and the maddening drone of
melancholy,
cause no one took time to detail when and where
this pipers' tune would
decrescendo.
"Offend you? Offend you with
science?"
No no offense, but nor for her demons
defense.
Blinded by blinking, ears sheared, reason
teetering,
the woman herself is yet too beautiful for
. | 
