Heavens Below
I think the world will end
in fields of flowers and sickly sweet nectar,
The meaty funk of forbidden mushrooms
against my tongue — what does it matter?
When the sun burns the flesh off of bones,
we won't be there to feel the sting.
For now, let's imagine a world
where fungi feed off of radiation poisoning,
turning our leftover sickness into a second spring.
Carbon remission. Cancer's patient dreams.
That's the trick about life after death:
we have to die to justify the worshipping.