The bright knuckles of Ursa Major
begin to bleed into one another,
and I realise we are in trouble.
The sky turns to milk; planets hang
like smoked teal marbles
while the oceans boil away,
revealing crazied trenches
and the grand ribs of whales.
The apocalypse smells minty.
I can hear the voices behind the horizon.
When I peel back my skin,
I am surprised at the tallow,
the tendrils, the flax.
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