by John Blackmore

You will not hear of my end
Through a headphone set or stereo speaker.
If you put to your ear a telephone receiver,
The flat line of a dial tone would sound eternal
Like radio white noise or heterodyne ticks—
It’s these that will last
Through dust and bricks
For a half-life of years.

You will not read of my passing
In Sunday features, or manicured
Press releases from heads of state
Who celebrate the status quo,
Meet suffering with hubris, and mistake
Ego for greatness.

You will not feel me slip away
On a rising tide, today
Or tomorrow, where sand recedes
Through clasped hands
And the sea reclaims another island home.

My end is no surprise, but of course, you know
That my end is surely your end, so
Together, we’ll surely go.