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One of the Things That Is Unlikely, But Possible

Peter 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.

Peter Davis

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