Poetry

They have nowhere else to go./
No instinct to burrow./
No mask to fit between/
small lungs and the poison air.

A land, clean, civil /
No oily, heavy tar breaths. /

a smooth circular motion they tell me / is best for wetting the crooked flesh of it

But flow down all /
The way to the sea. When drought / comes to stake /
Its claim

A man in a charred shirt is being led down the street by soldiers in camo…

you can’t imagine how many wearing blank /
eyes and blunt mouths stand ready, in formation /
to pull you, us, one by one, /
to the engine and lay your body, /
our bodies, /
in the flame when the coal runs low /

you can’t imagine. And yet it still won’t be enough.