WEBVTT

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I think that I'll end with this
silly, silly little love poem,

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actually.

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Yeah.

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Am I going to--

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I never read this one.

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Yeah, sure.

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I'll do it.

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[CHUCKLES] Thank you all so
much for hanging out with us

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and for hanging out with poems.

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Again, thank you to everybody
who in smaller, very large,

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beautiful ways, makes the world
of poetry and a life in poems

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possible.

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It is my dream.

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It is my dream.

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This one's called Doom.

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I'll end on a nice,
happy one called Doom.

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[LAUGHTER]

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You've dreamed about it since
you were a kid, a secret,

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a funeral, a spreading cough.

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And then it starts, the
end, the whole terrible end.

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For years, you've kept one
eye on the shadows swilling

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above the door, waiting for
the arrival of the god of doom.

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Oh, this is a pandemic poem.

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I hope that's clear.

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What to do now that he's here,
sipping coffee in our kitchen?

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We sneak glares from the
sink, mutter apologies when

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we bump in the hall.

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He's an awful guest, of
course, the god of doom,

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tracks blood everywhere,
cries when we feed him,

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screams if we don't.

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So we keep the freezer stocked
with dumplings, black fruit,

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beans to last a month.

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We take turns hefting
his bulk, keep

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him placated with a
soundtrack of pickaxes,

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songs about death camps
and microplastics,

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circular fretting.

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It's only a matter of time.

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When it's storms, he
yanks open the windows.

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He polishes our worst
parts, steals constantly.

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At night, he raps at the
wall behind our heads,

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just as he did for 10,000
nights before he showed up,

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just as he'll do for
10,000 nights after.

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Meanwhile, well, you know,
meanwhile, all our kin

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is dying at a distance.

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The coast's been
burning for weeks.

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Filling the kettle, you catch
me humming, (SINGING) the dream

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that you dream will come true.

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And we laugh.

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Though there's nothing
funny but this.

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We knew that end
was coming here.

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We knew it.

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And like idiots, like
perfect idiots, we stayed.

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Thanks y'all.

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[APPLAUSE]

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