After

After the snake has swallowed its own tail— 

what then? Does it tuck itself into a scaly 
ball, stitch itself into a leathered sphere 

to be kicked around on a green playing field 

or struck with a bat as people cheer  
in unison from the stands? After the river 

has gorged itself on houses and tractors, 

gas stations and trucks that slid as if without 
protest into its onrushing mouth, did it lie 

back down in its bed, its terrible hunger 

quiet until the next time? It's said some events 
happen about once in a thousand years: planets 

line up in ways that excite astrologers; volcanoes 

wake their oldest fire demons. We think the end 
is the end, that nothing can come after. But who 

are we to know? A bent barbershop pole still twirls 

its stripes of red and blue. A clock chimes the hour. 
There's someone already working on the next prophecy, 

reading the ashen shapes traced by tea leaves in a cup.