phone numbers as tracking codes. I can see through the call, I enter the old home, not to warn or say goodbye, but to explain how the meteors would come and why. I phone from the car in another country, a dead sister, in her red burial clothes, next to me. it’s what they will do when the meteors come. they accompany, sit with you, not to warn or say, ‘follow me home’, but to teach the essence of end time. I see the first of the great rocks fall, impact hidden by skyscraper. we take a U-turn, motorists, calm, never running red lights even as the meteor hit, rubble and dust advancing. our roads are so clear and orderly, we turn and drive away.
who ruined my early loves? who left these scars, these dream corpses, these failed crops in my garden? this warehouse world, with the military man, is the colour of dry soil, burial sand, perhaps ashes of humans, turned into rations, foodstuffs, hollow, limited, arranged on a table. the military man has come to punish my misleader. the gaunt, frightened man who ruined my history. he flusters in end time, tries to explain packets of sand but nothing is of meaning in such moments. the meteor takes everything out, across the globe, city by city, slowly, with phone numbers as tracking codes, fully dialled in. I do not see the upheaval of land and home. I call not to say goodbye or to warn, but to explain the gifts of cataclysm.
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