These boats go by water &
by spirals of tundra to impose
inflections on litanies of locals
to toss molten nickels
from roof of empire's church
with dry-rot in the
load-bearing pillars
as a ptarmigan yawns
we are clipping thru
Flaherty's silent frames
in two centuries
all things fall apart
such cosmopolitan alibi
the city lights accept madness
is this open grave, perhaps boneyard?
careening jet planes on trial
jettisoned to the absolute end
of all topography to break
the simulation as we
are choking on our insides
banging on the edge of the world
Justin Chase Jones is a mentally ill poet based in canada.
Comments