Out of Order
The
streams grow muddy
beneath
our chemical burdens.
Additives
cast their insidious
enchantments
over my pleasure
centers,
lure me from orchard
and
field. Such savory poisons,
infuse
me with neon. Even
my
breath is not my own.
We
made smokestacks our bowers,
and
now I crave the oppressive kiss
of
ozone and algae blooms, forgetting
which
is the product and which
is the
byproduct. The money lenders
have
cast me out of my temple.
The
stones welcomed me, and I was glad.
The
domes of the dead exhibit
no
prejudices. All my dreams
were
trapped in amber, burning
to get
out. The yellow out-of-order bags
cover
the gas station pumps. My angels whisper,
Get
back in the car. So I do.
I Am The Door -- Victoria Golovina
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