by Patricia Young
     It's so quiet now the children have decided to stop
     being born. We raise our cups in an empty room.
     In this light， the curtains are transparent as gauze.
     Through the open window we hear nothing
     no airplane， lawn mower， no siren
     speeding its white pain through the city's traffic.
     There is no traffic. What remains is all that remains.
     The brick school at the five points crosswalk
     is drenched in morning glory.
     Its white flowers are trumpets
     festooning this coastal town.
     Will the eventual forest rise up
     and remember our footsteps？ Already
     seedlings erupt through cement，
     crabgrass heaves through cracked marble，
     already wolves come down from the hills
     to forage among us. We are like them now，
     just another species looking to the stars
     and howling extinction.
     They say the body accepts any kind of sorrow，
     that our ancestors lay down on their stomachs
     in school hallways， as children they lay down
     like matches waiting for a nuclear fire.
     It wasn't supposed to end like this：
     all ruin and beauty， vines waterfalling down
     a century's architecture； it wasn't supposed to end
     so quietly， without fanfare or fuss，
     a man and woman collecting rain
     in old coffee tins. Darling，
     the wars have been forgotten.
     These days our quarrels are only with ourselves.
     Tonight you sit on the edge of the bed loosening your shoes.
     The act is soundless， without future
     weight. Should we name this failure？
     Should we wake to the regret at the end of time
     doing what people have always done
     and say it was not enough？