WE SUCK THE TOWN DRY

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Submitted Date 02/17/2019
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I

have no common ground with miners or

prostitutes—drunks or folded hands caked hard

and splintered after hard labor

and cold nights.

 

Within the walls weighed down by

vines tearing into waterlogged wood, the silence

saps warmth. Humans existed here. Submitted

to axe and saw. Filled their lungs in shafts. Blackened

mucus and their bodies tell them, “Stop,

stop.”

 

Another tombstone is erected until the stones outnumber the living.

Simple tasks breaking backs. Take time to thank God,

thank God for your bread taking on mold

and hardened. Someone coughed, someone

gnashed and broke their teeth on the stone.

 

What would the sun do but shine down on our naked backs

as we rip the roots to crawl beneath the earth.

 

We mine, we

drink, we

fuck, we

suck the town dry. Take it in.

Summers of sweat and nights of whiskey, candlelight

beckoning:

Sunday, Sunday. His day of rest.

The church stands! Holy melancholy

leaves its mark near the stones on display. Encapsulated

by vines, ready for a glance.

 

Someone might roll down a window to look.

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