Like a constipated
mule, the old man
limps toward me

saying, The end is
near—the words
falling from his mouth              

like congealed bacon
fat, then the young
woman emerges from

the churning sea—her
auburn hair, alabaster,
almost translucent

naked skin, fearless
like thunder, casting
a long shadow—The

world ended long
ago, she says, and
we walk onto the

emerald green great
lawn, her in the old
man’s cerulean

sky-colored overcoat,
and she points to the
tower—figures falling

from its large windows—
Fear of truth, she asserts
referring to the bodies

smashing like overly ripe
melons on the ground,
then she says, Your

classroom is on the
sixth floor, and as I
open the heavy door

she states, The class
is on how unnecessary
the class is—then adds

Please do try and not
stumble or trip near
an open window, sir.