What they tell us is that they have done enough,
there can be no more, it has to come to an end.
It is time now for the crossing of their palms
with silver, gold. They have put what is left
into the great mounds, behind electric fences.
We are not allowed to be near. I think of
a metallic smell on my hands, insistent,
I think of you
scattered, how I could walk down
the streets and some part of you
could be blowing around me and I would not see it,
catch it. I think of creeping
under the fences that keep me out, with a torch
scrabbling about in the mud, the wet, the mess,
with a shovel, bare hands. I want you so much.
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