Is it a failure of my imagination
that I cannot believe in the end of the world.
Or that I believe in it, quietly, as I do in death
but in its own good time. Though, of course,
I understand the weapons are at hand, madmen are loose.
People I loved were concerned, are concerned.
I drift off into the orbit of my own troubles
finding them more familiar, I suppose, though
also more immediately painful. I think
I have made my choice. Others must make theirs.
Nothing can be done to coerce the unwilling
or to safeguard them or us if our dreams
project dragons reeling across a waste of sky.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 5 Number 8, on page 42
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