mining: the extraction of valuables
a fresh element, raw
fire starter –
dripping language
from his pores
who speaks
but you?
I do
rock dusts are risky
but I will
breathe through
demand is high
pressurized coal
flows like
water
and that is not
my desire
chemistry is mixing
air into
asphyxiation
but I am
fixated
on the way
the world tilts
when I make out
with your layers
and veins
and even though 1,549 died in China
that way;
due to
I will not abandon you
I made a thick map to agony where
blackbirds fly with molten wings,
cackle over swart prattle;
corrupted gut remains.
But, I cannot go.
I am busy.
I am Feeding on seeds of raw season
ardor.
Piles of sediment – particles soaked in grief – had been
heart raked,
sowed deep down inside hollow ground.
Alone with dark space.
Rooted.
In ten years, never could I have plucked up
as easily.
A sanguine, green gaze lifts rust cakes
from my wrists,
then my ankles,
then my eyes,
then my smile.
Then, I am moral.
There, I am valued.
Agony is an old white pillow that I
spit pneumonia on to.
It is Elvis Presley in fake fever morning.
It is six am deer fly kicks.
It is curled up on hard washroom
floor board.
It is repulsive reassurance;
malnourished.
I made a determined map to agony, where
nothing suffices,
dead things grow more dead
under night’s greasy carnivorous sweats.
But, I cannot go.
I am busy.
I am busy planting luster
with a green gazer,
with flexible wrists,
with fleshy eye-lids in restful reassurance.
I am nourished.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 