Air

In the smudged silos,
a slipshod grain hungry and unfilling.

The fields here do not even
feed their own.

On the crotchety mountain,
emigres weave stories of
the old cruelty of the thin, dry air,
new cruelty of elevated antiseptic oxygen.

Between a one and a two,
a child is born with four feet.

The cry of a lone lantern in
the nefarious night.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.