(For Scott Olsen)
It spills out forever, night, day.
Fingers spill to the wound
satellites, fireflies, the magic
of hot concern. Young man
sacked in silver light. Stun
the cut string of his collapse
into us, reach out from distant eyes.
The half moon bursts.
His brain swells. Comatose.
This asset to defend, this dividing line.
Gas burns, curls to eyes
tongues the message into corners
as markets rise on heat
their heart the magma of everything
that could possibly matter, the power
of the gun of fire
punched force forwards
forwards and forwards
arced at his brow now the blood grin dent
fingers slick in open moon
half of its self, half of us all
poison only. And heal.
Questions for the Near Future. 1 - What will you do when you are told that your company pension is bust? Or that the pension you thought you were going to get has to be cut to a fraction o...
1 day ago