Issue 7 | Summer 2010


The dark, steel drums of waste
sinking beneath the mountain.
The hot circuitry moaning
through the grid, alive, but forced
to move.
These things wash over me.
A crowd draws in, closer
to the vast desert, collapse
like sinkholes, into fathoms
of what I want,
what you want, what we think
we need.
Tell me of the arctic hare, the caribou,
the sinking ice leveling
habitat and home.
Silver and gold cities that blanket
the country, now return to dust.

Filed under: Poetry