We are at the end of everything.
Everything! Do we want to win?
The cat bats a cork across the hall
and into your bath: you, interrupted
and naked in this domestic enterprise.
I too wish to shatter the illusion; break
out of the image - stop needing to submit
all of the surveys, adding my data to a pile
from which we pass knowledge to nothing.
We are more sexually attracted to the trees.
Not saying I’d fuck a tree, but the arousal
is more when touching bark than when
we consider the possibility of opening
up our relationship. What is alive?
My hand placed on your unconscious
back cyclically erecting with sleepbreath.
The waterlogged ghost in my wine. A felt
coexistence. There’s not just one unknown
soldier, but the tombs would have you
think otherwise. There’s no such thing
as extinction. Someone always receives
the apocalypse exposed in their hands.
__________________________
Meredith MacLeod Davidson is a Glasgow-based poet and writer, originally from Virginia. Meredith's poetry is published or forthcoming in The London Magazine, Puerto del Sol, trampset, Gutter, Propel Magazine, and elsewhere.
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