Wind in the sea instead of the sky

The trail is long

From where your ancestor stepped before mine,

And meters marked on the stone-cliffed walls

Shores broken and scattered locked hearts,

Hearts to never be unlocked in piss-filled corpses;

Mother’s tears caught in the wind storm

Like the clouds that whisper sweet

London fog and colony muddied and deep

In the carnage dripping between red caged scorn;

Like fathers on trains with maps of time, 

Losing it in the spiraling colosseum of gunpowder

And violets loosened from their stems whiten

Black locust, thin and tall and brittle

But never quite broken and all the more dangerous; 

Little secluded Appalachian Mountains  

The mountain’s tips are younger and lower than the sea’s level,

But the black lamb fodder for the laughing yokel, 

Son of clancy and cold yankee;

Little cries for the trodden

Over the clamorous millennium, burning rubber and fire

Forgotten forage gold like hearts left to rot

And it’s a disease, a plague

To plunge two fingers into the earth and feel its death, 

Measure the air with spittle on a cigarette

And jet fuel water swirling down the drain;

Locusts and black locusts and cicadas

Mercury and lead and dmdm

Sweet honeyed are the ships trapped in the weeping

And the wailing of a child born yet unborn

The sounds of the deep stirring ocean

Too sudden and too loud to hear

Wind in the sea instead of the sky