Plumes and Red Ghosts

Anew, rebuild,
Upset and disturb,
That land which had no choice.
You lick
And pick,
Plunder forever.
There is no pause,
No stuttering.
The wheels,
They churn
And the cowbells ring
Into the sky,
Holed and dry.
We whistle
As we steam in heat
Which rises, boundless
For the mirrored peaks
Which crumble.
Ice-picks peck
The slush-smothered pups
In the melting pot
Of productivity.

This is our home

Where we squeeze

And shutter

Our beliefs

In silo’d motifs

We’ve outgrown.

The red ghosts loom

In the cavernous gloom

We are fools to imagine

A better contraction

Of love, unrequited

And still.


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