Bernal Hill is shocking in green.
It rained last night,
violence of a broken truce
after we’d reconciled ourselves
to accelerating drought.
Deep in the core of the galaxy,
there is no doxology, no epiphany,
only a massive black hole,
a force more powerful than love
spinning in the exquisite blackness
of a suicide.
Dark energy blows the cosmos apart.
The city is in ruins,
even the birds are mystics—
crows convene on the chimneypiece
predicting unmerciful weather.
Here at the vanguard of the apocalypse,
the universe is expanding faster than ever.
We’re nearly there, water running low.