Poem written while standing on the Theodor-Heuss-Brücke at dusk after having finished the last episode of Chernobyl on HBO

Like residues

stored in the gills

of mushrooms, clouds

of futures stalled.

Everything we lived

through so it would not

return — our regrets

the same as our hopes

are stalled, circling

a greater point unseen

though it is there

whenever we imagine

what was not meant to

or might have been —

so the unborn is still

born if differently

into this world, if only

for our intentions

that it not be.

The dead will have died

as have the living

and the earth even

here before us

but we are not finished.

This is the opening.

The wind sounds

no alarm as we enter

the nothing around which

all rounds, swirling

as going down a drain

meaning the same

as gaining momentum

to outpace the pull

and throw out our arms

right as we disappear,

having run out of

ourselves. As does matter

exist to end twinkling

in the iris, the eye

a black hole no one

may enter and

come back from,

back into themselves

as they were when

separate, whole

and untouched by all

they aren’t. Rocks

are being untied

as we speak —

or is it that our

speaking undoes

what we’ve described.

The dusk is far too

clear upon the water.

The seagulls are tossed

about the rough wind

like men overboard

and flags on the bridge

whipped taught as if

fighting to be torn

free of rope and pole.

People turn and look at me

as I pass, confused by

what is going on.

Is it too late? The air

frigid though it is

supposed to be

the end of Spring

and we are the ones

who are alive.