Sunday Poem

The days of miracles
or the possibility of miracles
or even the fantasy of a single miracle
are coming to a close.
The skin around us is closing in.
From the shores of the departed
we'll find some solace in the glitter
dipped in our pores, all lucid
and unkempt we walk into
oblivion, the chairman of a big
dumb city stumbles past us, sure of nothing
but what comes next or that
something will happen next
to us: forever and ever, amen.