The end of the world starts small—it could be a handful of dried goji berries
or marginalia left by the previous reader of the ‘Homo Faber’ you just bought
at a stall—yet apocalyptic eschatology focusses on a grand finale of a sort,
even though the whole world comes down to a few stanzas on a tarnished page
trapped in the typewriter perched on a battered desk in your attic studio.