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In the past, the apocalypses were green:

the flood of sea glass, the influx of asparagus.

Everyone could only do everything

and hope for some strange miracle:

a spring drought, maybe rubber shoes.

Nothing was pointless, but within glass boxes,

any action felt meaningless—where

was the applause in rising from bed?

Where were the standing ovations

after successfully scrambling eggs?

Math came back in bolts: each attack

a new equation no one remembered how to solve,

besides the scientists, who were locked up

in caverns with bats in their hair.

The rulers they bent started screaming.

The gloves they wore began to cry.

The beakers they filled turned purple

with pride. At least they knew how to be contained.