John Morgan
The Unsafe House

Waking after the dream to a slick
December gloom, a threat of end-time
hovering around the room, he goes
over the escape route knowing the
attackers, a posse of children
with rifles and machetes, could smash
down the closet door, and, finding his
family huddled there, finish them off
with a few brisk rounds to the head.
Better instead to scramble up through
the ceiling access way and into
the space below the canted roof
where they might go undetected,
and as he sits up and starts to dress — 
a sickle moon slash-sinister in
the west-it comes to him that they
can make it up there using the bureau
           for steps
                      and closing
                                 them behind,
so that once they've replaced the sheetrock
ceiling door they could wait it out in that
unlit frigid space. But they'll need extra
sweaters-hurry, for God's-sake hurry!— 
as the enemy rabble is breaking
into the house like they do, it seems,
on a daily basis in those far-off
desperate places where justice and
mercy have lost their cachet and life
holds a lot less value than in his dreams.

Psalm (after Nietzsche)

That day is coming soon when our people,
all the cousins, pets, children
will begin to disperse like the insects
of summer after the petals fall.
And where do they go, those bees,

those dragonflies? Into the soil
where they break into pieces, a wing,
an antenna, a thorax, absently dreaming
of spring, as the long cold settles over
them, their buzzing and sipping forgotten.

And a great age passes like those
lumbering eras we learned of
in grade school, or the unbelievable time
it takes to make a star and its planets and
evolve a living world — all gone to ground,

and trillions of years slip by in silence
under the earth, but then one day, one
millennium, a gentle humming and something
oozing, gripping, reaching, this relentless longing
toward light-urgent, fantastic. It could happen.