Impacts

I. 

Dozing in bed by the window I see

the sky thrust its lip upon the earth,

carving a crater like a cat's tongue 

with a strike across the horizon;

before I can react I am frozen

and all is light, death.

II.

Dozing in bed terrified of the heavy breaths

that grow more hoarse by the moment

against the frail glass window,

the low ceiling and its peeling paint, the coarse sheets--

I'm running downstairs, drowning in the calls

of the names of my family,

my legs entangled as if in water

struggling to swim against the front door,

trying to get out, to taste the living air--

the hard pavement speaks through the cracked wood

I'm lying on top of; the wind whimpers.

A red star in the sky pulsates

like a tumor in my chest. I clutch

my face, run down the street for hours

to wherever the hell the road goes,

past pick-up trucks limping on axles

to the center of town

until a firm hand grasps our throats,

we have no air to scream.

III.

No longer dozing within the sheets,

aware of the growing light on the horizon,

aware the darkened heart that twists beyond

any possibility of personal salvation,

I wrap myself in a blanket of warm cloth,

slouch, breathing slowly, slowly,

my chest crackling like a melting ice cap,

unable to stop, unable to will myself

to stop. Crying to bring the sunrise,

to have to get up again, to have to run

or just do something before the next

asteroid, the unthinkable impact 

against the window,

the shattering of continents

whose vibrations echo through my chest.