poetry

a sort of forever

a poem by jacob berg

there’s a sort of forever in the voice
booming pronouncement over
the car-pocked apocalypse, a
considered staccato, a
throw,
a catch. this man i saw ginsoaked
doing cannonballs off the curb, he were
all whirlybird he told me
where’d the grass go?
how’s the whole ground grey?
how’s these buildings go so high and
hard cash every brick but
we ain’t got none? son…