Monday, December 15, 2014

Bruised

The air today is bruised by wood smoke
and paper mill stink socked-in and left
too long on the line.
          It’s like hope turned
hollow-black green by a cynicism
that yellows into the muddy blood
of ten sweaty boys playing tackle
football in the ankle-deep muck
of a Saturday afternoon.
          Everything’s slipping
into a septic, sprinkling wet that melts
the coat off your back and the skin
from your very last bone.

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