Friday, March 4, 2011

The Cost of Oil

The river moves over the old stones
and sings to my world

I will not listen

I will not pray for the brown eyes
who cast their hearts into the riffles

I turn away when they come to bless
the crooked fish

I will not recognize a thousand years
because I spit into the green pools

I do not know the poverty
that makes them stand beside me

The river moves over the old bones
and the melodies are dying

I will not see

I do not see my reflection
or the sheen of my recklessness

The river moves

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