The finished slag heap yawns
over the highway, a man-made sunset
aging on the horizon:
fading oranges and tarnished pinks,
mass of oxides,
rich, uninhabitable rust.

The town sinks
into oblivion, heavy as organ
music.  We are not saved.
People walk in a viscous dream of the past,
faces crushed under the weight
of so much ruined earth.
In our hearts, the stillness of church
basements.  Of dust.

Overhead, the twin engines of a plane,
angels beating their wings as fast as
they can, come home,
come home,

but our arms don’t reach that far.

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