Oh, Christ. We're still here, left
like anxious Adventists inspecting
the loose shingles of our leaky hope,
our mundanely regular, slow and steady extinction,
the revelatory glare of our impatient despair.
I thought it would be ice -
the brakes gave out on the slick road
not far from St. Charles -
but a Blanche DuBois hysteria settled me
into relying on the kindness of mechanics.
The bill reflected their Midas touch.
Going back, I think we came close
to the godhead. I think it was flowing there
in the Fox river,
or on the bridges crossing it.