by Austin McCarron
Behind chrome plated forests
there is a stump
of light and bright
is the flame of its inner machine.
Hot as a roast the meat
of its gleaming fist. On tours of air
the destination silence cherishes.
Its heart trembles like wood.
Plagued by doubt, its greatness of
spirit is revered and its life is a song
poured out of
concrete furnaces like a cast of wires.
The land is sweet, full of religious
smells. Out of roots of chaos, springs
of water, wearing caps of snow.
On legs of blood
a journey through gates and passes,
where trees
with animal fur over time begin to thaw.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
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