At the moment we realize
that we’ve been in
the apocalypse
for a while,
we learn
as well
not to speak of it
to others
who may not
yet know
that this is
where we are
so as not to create
a general panic:
instead, it is revealed
to each of us
in exacting detail
so deep as to be
unshakably true,
and as we begin
to tremble
at the impending
End, it becomes clear
to us that we must tremble
alone. Now and then
we may see the eyes
of another who knows
and nod or perhaps
brush against
each other
in a crowd —
rogue effort
at sympathy,
comfort
in a swift
glancing touch —
then, we return
to the seemingly endless
beginning of the lonely
end. No fire, no pestilence,
no storm or epic war
in this: only the slow
madness of not being able
to share it for long with anyone.
Dark Matter 