Volume 29, Number 1

am Ende sein

Fine with me, I
mean it’s your planet,

you go ahead,
keep the motor running,

your wrist with what
must be a finite

draped atop what we insist

on calling a
steering wheel, warm it up

double-bag it,
toss your alloyed can

where you’ve tossed your
butts; what’s fill ’er up but

a line in a 
song like nothing left to lose;

You may leave the 
light on, but me, I’ll be
off for, where else,

—Bruce Robinson