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