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When I become sure the entire world will disappear,

its end predictable, brutal, 

I run upstairs and watch part already disappearing, 

discover at what point things start to vanish: 

the diploma on my wall, 

the toy chest,

my poems,

the dog at the foot of my recliner. 

The petals procrastinate outside my window 

in shimmering color

at the edge of white,

and then the white, stem by stem, surrenders. 

The shade accommodates all in its smooth mandate:

the rock gardens, 

the wild geraniums I planted ten years ago,

the butterfly weeds beside the mailbox,

the common yarrow flapping in the wind.

As I get undressed, 

turning to the dark of petals and stems,

to everything green and alive there.

The dark to come will be different.