To prepare for the apocalypse, I practice looking 
in the mirror. I kiss myself on the mouth. I practice 
hopping on one foot, but the eventual sight of you 
nosing among the lilacs nearly topples me, 
so I excavate the marketplace and poll 
the dignified masses in their plaid coats. They ask 
for more time. Despite my ministrations, the flowers 
keep dying. Despite my ministrations, the certainty 
of uncertainty continues. Romantic, tossed, I bet 
on your five good molars. I forget to cheat. 
In the fashion of a man, I perform the proper rites. 
I stow the long boxes in the graves. I shimmer 
in the bat cave. I croak and insects gather 
along my pink tongue. A few words swell.