Poem after the end of the world

Now it’s too late:
no waiting game,
no walking home

no digging for a wild epiphany
in routine clay

The long, long count
has fallen silent
and my dreams have closed down

Sullen sheep refuse to jump:
my mail is undelivered

And yet something makes sudden sense
out there:
words tumble like music,
the sun still rises

This afterworld
seems strangely bright
and I can see
mountains in the distance

waiting like eagles for the unwary, who
think it’s all over


<written about five years ago>