Another Small Apocalypse

These trees are just one more thing we need to pack before day breaks.

We are free. Like coyotes we run far away. Wherever I go,

I leave notes, tucked into walls. Solitude is something people used to pay for,

they could afford it, but now… Upstairs I search through cabinets for medicine.

The buildings are all worn out husks, starting to slouch toward the ground.

These events are being recorded by a temporary historian.

I hear a voice describing something that might have once been flowers.

I looked into the empty fireplace, I’m holding an empty jar, and I wonder

if night is just one big shadow. We try to create the things we knew,

we’ll find a place for them, we’ll make room for them, and we’ll distract ourselves from the need to eat.


David Wojciechowski’s first book is Dreams I Never Told You & Letters I Never Sent (Gold Wake, 2017). Other poems can be found in Bateau, Jellyfish Poetry, Sporklet, and elsewhere. He can be found at and on Twitter @MrWojoRising.


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