Paradise 2.0

Back where I’m from,

summers come lush and

abrupt as death’s

hand. Cicadas twitch

like dying fish;

getting to the car is

a dark-coloured massacre,

a Rapture

in miniature.

Trees stand shrouded

on every corner, bent over

in devotion.

All a funeral needs

is a witness,

and the world stands still

on its ichorous

axis.

Least, that’s what

we tell ourselves-

God knows we’ve gotten

good at this.