By Wes Civilz

The threadbare jacket that I wear is made of 
Woven catastrophe. The car I drive  
Is powered by a liquid I’m afraid of 
(Fluid Apocalypse). There is a sound I’ve 
Heard now and then, soft buzz, a background hum 
Of slow disaster . . . and disaster is  
The word that means the stars have come undone, 
So I can’t sail among them with Osiris 
At death, as planned, so while I live I’ll try 
To drink each tall cool glass of loss, cooled more 
By colder cubes of void, and force-feed pies 
Of difficulty with misfortune’s fork, 
      And be a boss of shock, a bird of woe, 
      A watching fly upon a wall of bone. 

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Wes Civilz lives next to a dusty cactus in Tucson, Arizona. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in journals such as Ploughshares, The North American Review, and New Ohio Review. He posts writing-oriented videos on Instagram under the handle @wes_civilz.