Under the withered tree
by the exit-ramp
heat-shimmered asphalt
I draw in sulphur
and exhale rose-breath
vibrant springtime birdsong
within primeval, ever long
I take in poison
to then speak
with loving-kindness
love, the last well run dry
while anger fills with dust
swept in, disappears
a transformation happens here.
No archeologist
has the power of Sol
summer soul unrelenting
court of last appeal
refuses a reprieve
the currents cease
the ripples end
the inhabitants flee
if they have the power
unearthed the hunger stones
our ancestors telling us
what we already know
the famine age
begun
beyond
the bed riven with
fissures in a kiln
crafted in greed
a mountain of gold
cannot buy a single drop
of the Loire
abundant to
sparse
endangered to
extinct
Eden to eternity
Unspoken Politics 