Dear Apocalypse

Gust through—     good. Give us over to the oaks,    sway the old sheds, the mansions—    shake them down to the meadows,     unmake us, melt off what was wasted    of our waking years— only know    we're no worse than former fools.    You could have felled us a millennium back,    blasted and bludgeoned— you're late.    Level us, but let it be put in stone   (or penciled on plastic): Here lie some bodies    who bear no blame for any faults    the future may find at rest in their ruins.    Remember: we had a god who grumbled    through us, gave us his face, held us—    fisted, we like to feel— even as he ended us.    Excuse him. He was, like any other man,     complicated.