Originally posted 11/29/2011.
Open the car window at
eighty miles an hour.
Cars peel off behind me
until the highway’s
empty. No one
is going my way.
The city forty miles ahead.
The sky, orange
over deepest black.
Rumors of riot and fire all day.
It’s the end of the world, some say,
but no one wants proof except me.
How foolish, how
odd that is — to
just curl up and die
or hide in the boondocks
without seeing for yourself?
In fact, how can you even flee
when you consider this world?
Maybe that’s the best of all possible
pyres up ahead.
Stuck my fingers
into wounds once, long ago,
to prove to myself
that the world wasn’t ending
after all. Why wouldn’t I
do this? It worked out last time so
I gun it. I go.
I’ve always been the one
who has to know.
Dark Matter 
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