Ash is in the air
All the little children are leaving.
Look around you:
the last great migration’s
begun.
There was never a promise
– no rainbow from God –
that we would die in a warm feather bed.
All the businessmen melt,
and the generals huddle.
They’re at their best when the meat
begins to boil.
A woman at the spaceport
sniffs the air and gags.
West wind is coughing pine,
the ruptured muck of forests:
grub-flesh stink and blister-singe.
Ash swarms down like hornets.
Then the asphalt heaves,
and in the whipping trees
monkeys, pissing, howl!
at the ten machines. This is
not another Ice Age.
Plant your feet – you can feel it spinning
It is the violet doorway
the vortex through the Human.
Something wafts above the stinking hordes,
survives.
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