After the world is consumed by fire and pestilence,
will Kudzu shroud highway overpasses and blanket street signs—
would nature paint the earth lush and quiet for its new beginning?

I imagine the electrical grid’s feeble rattle and sigh;
I imagine the end of movies and microwave ovens.

Might satellites ding out of orbit, crash to concrete in abandoned parking lots;
maybe Armageddon would manifest in ingenuity with duct tape, WD-40,
or newfound knot-tying skills. Could it be so cinematic?

I imagine my stockpile of canned peas and setting traps for rabbits;
I imagine trading fishing line for tarp, a beltloop carabiner for a utility knife.

And in the After, would we finally meet him?
Would He descend in the body of Catholic Jesus, that hot serpentine Son
with blue eyes and highlights?

I imagine him shirtless, his linen chiton split up the side;
I imagine a glimpse of exposed thigh. A sliver of hipbone.