there’s a meteor that might bring us

its awful light.

 

We’re counting down the time before

impact, but we’ve forgotten what

numbers are.

 

We’re punching placid and caged dragons.

We want to shift their skin to

bloody pulp.

 

I’ve chosen not to drink whiskey tonight

despite the incandescent, small

body of matter,

 

big black beyond, bringing extinction.

Although the dragons in cages

don’t exist, of course,

 

our carnage is so silent and I’m destroyed.

We didn’t need to punch them, but

we chose to

 

again, and again.