A Prophecy

Let's
Do this.
Let it begin,
Though what begins will middle
and end.

I trust you.
I like you.
I am in your hands
and then
I will not be: Either you will have let me go
(which is to say: dropped me)
Or groaning almost-silent geology
will break your grip.

We lean into a colorless non-place:
The food we love will be paper.
Fire will shrink to ash.
Music tin and dull.
We lean.
The sun quicker.
The moon less remarkable.

These particulars:
The yard too big to mow.
The stream too wide to jump.
The wine too strong
but flavorless.
Meat too tough to chew.
Friends one by one into the white.
Our health. I lose my glasses.
The opening of our hands.