Salt Still Standing

Nostalgia for old industry, salutes

As if the soot of history clogging

Lungs binds fictive containment.

As if my blood gurgles silently

Through kitsch brass-admirals.

As if the point of life were tipping,

So that our amassing passing drift

Can polish pain,

Can admit:

Right;

Wrong.

Not enough to be old,

To sacrifice your elements

By pressing fingers on forearms,

Determined to anthropomorphise

A deity that lights his canon

Behind salted brown backs.

We must say goodbye

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