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On the Day the World Is Forecast to End and Does Not

So night's been poured and drunk.
The migrained clouds stumble and blanch.
An ornery sky. A boring sun-slant on dingy snow.
On my own stoop, a Christmas wreath loses its skin—what dread
in the soft sleet-sound of needles settling on a mat.
                            But sun touches the porch—
the street stretches itself.
A junco cleans its breast in such light.
And it dips, it swoops, not into ruin—moves
to a truck stacked with cut trees, itself moving on some fated
or unfated errand. The trees—what gilding will come
to the trees. Not into ruin. Not into ruin now.

K. A. Hays

Carnegie Mellon University Press

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