I came to the door of disaster like a dog
Looking for a home. Don’t drive me away,
Oh kind one. Don’t refuse me a master.
But I’ve been hanging around the perimeter
Of the apocalypse ever since, never let in,
Begging for scraps of catastrophe, which I get,
I always get. Oh, to be inside the door. Oh,
To not be anymore. Oh to be fed on the bread
Of pure corporeality, of things unaware,
The being of unliving, the breath of the dead.
But not to have to go there, not to cross
The threshold first. That’s a truth about some
Dogs—we whimper at the door, but we are
Too afraid to accept the invitation in.
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