Our Calamity: Born of Being
by Nick Horton
Prints of bare feet: The dust stained a viscous red. Our wounds, endlessly open, Like a black hole, Kept clean by crackling salt Upon the old molten road, Trampled down, A deathless throbbing rhythm. We face the sharp-toothed waves of heat That wreck & ruin the air, Where the rotting fruits of consolation Hang low upon our briny path. Our calamity, born of being, Kept lucid in the vain & faceless light, Has left us doomed To walk the day that cannot sleep Till the foul cast of our nature Is cracked & burnt & purged.