In the Flow
dust feasts on the heat,
revels in a way which the bodies
that it came from could not.
it gloms fetal laurels
incused on a penny baked with corrosion
on the ground.
it rides gale-stoke carousels
atop arcs of torn phantoms
vast as Ezekiel’s Wheel.
a dead ocean’s shark tooth
bites into a fractured extinct spine
in a land the same color as
the beige red chocolate stage
it has always been because no ice age
ever came here,
no glacial scrub to mute
the howls of the dead
who rear in serpentine orgy,
lording over the slithers
of the dust and the snakes and
the lines of shifting ants
every once in a while.
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