The End, circa mid-morning

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Sun breeds

on the electric chair. 

Scoured, asylums  

by freshwater. 

All human architecture 

fluxed 

downstream in the night. 

There are no limits to imitation. 

She says 

she has been so fervently unhappy, 

and I hope 

I shall never get used to it. 

Thus is the sweet flesh 

steamed and parcelled, 

by height, or weight, presumably, 

as and when. 

Revolutionise, when you receive, 

The space 

for the second to last time. 

Deck the great halls, 

the lesser ones too. 

Outside, our mouths have calcified, 

and the avenues are nothing but

excavated light, 

frailly 

now in length, and breadth, 

of baby, wild rice, retina.  

We thought our fear a destination, and isn’t 

it still?

Oh, how the stories stay open 

so late these days!

Docks all emptied. 

Starlings shattered. 

Grape trees taste the lengthening dark. 

White wicker chair

facing the sea

everything left to fear.

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Leo Kang is tucked away somewhere dour in Yorkshire, England. When he grows up, he hopes to write good things that last.

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