End Times

i am not ready for a light-filled forest

still half aflame i struggle to recognize it

with thinning hair comes the chill of loss

i finger a nickel that slaveowner’s face

riding in my pocket like i’m lewis and clark

under red and scarlet oaks the music of falling acorns

tick-tocking but only at random moments

i clock in at several caught breaths an hour

a forest can turn to coal in the fullness of time

and those who believe in hell can dig it up and burn it

with faith all things acquire an airbrushed glow

but when mountains move there’s a detachment fault

beneath which other rocks go their own way

i sit watching the treetops glow

in sun that they can no longer taste