One of the Things That Is Unlikely, But PossiblePeter Davis
The sun shall turn the color of a bruise, its giant black eye shall be swollen. The earth shall be Ernest Hemingway’s fist. The oceans will fill with women and men in waders, wading even in the great deep. Evolution will speed up and legs six miles long will trod the ocean floor like the privileged teenager’s messy room. Crinkled jeans and skateboards, old magazines and balled socks. Mothers will gather in the middle of North America and begin melding into a single mom, a woman so large that when she puts the earth in her mouth she will do so like a child accidentally swallowing a shirt button. “So long” will become magic words. Every radio broadcast, every television show, every opera and play, every musical instrument, every sign, sigh, advertisement and law shall whisper: “So long.” The God I don’t believe in will become my neighbor, move in on a Saturday and, by Tuesday, help me paint my house the color of my pale, egg-eyes.
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