I arrived here under
A green, auspicious light.
It was late, and the music
Had already stopped.
The moths lit the fringes
As they emerged
From the snuffed-out condos,
The apartments of dark flame.
In the center of the party
A birch tree had taken root.
Someone had pulled back
The paper bark and written
A last agenda.
Neither the pen, nor the
Author remained.
I’ve grown so sick of procrastination,
Of arriving late.
Because of you
I missed the entire world
Turning back to earth.