Evening settles in
with as many errors as usual.
—John Ashbery
That is precisely what
the sign said. Not aloud,
of course; this isn’t that
kind of countryside. The
tops of the fenceposts
glowed with moonbeam,
but the night was not
pleased with itself,
nosirree. The drivers-
by would most definitely
have noticed. Was I the
only person driving by –
a veritable man on the
moon – the world comp
letely uninhabited but
for me and the sleeping
cattle? Nope. Nosirree!
It was what was asquirm
under the loam that gave
off a universe of uneasiness.
Was this the end? Or were
we just getting to the good
part? God only knows. As
if he’s up there. Or she. I’d
lived long enough to see how
monstrous a denouement that
one radical twist of the tongue
could bring to an entire world
of citizenry. And by citizens
I’m saying cows, I tell you.
And humans, those souls that
tend to eradicate the concept
of humanity, such people!
And worms like me. Thus
read the end of the undiscov
ered note, which remains
unsigned, anonymous, but
for a few clayey smudges
upon desiccated parchment:
streaks of filth on a singular
page that might yet hold a bit
of moisture. At least for now.
