Osmium
The sand below the point is still blue-white,
still stung by osmium and shell-point stars
despite the movement of radiate tides
which sweep past rust and carcasses each night.
Sterile winds blow sweetness from east to west.
The scent of toasted almonds and sweet plums
rouses up from the river, floats without rest
over churches, hospitals, wolves and sheep
who breathe in fire, who cloak themselves in smoke.
Machines in the Urals pump out soft deaths,
lift sodden copper limbs on the downstroke
of the factory's shift-bell, exchanging
men for ghosts and metal when it is rung.
The cold sea, this, an empty iron lung. |
By Hannah Craig |
