Governs our world by its generation
Of crackling fire, a variation
On the solvent, power possessing stone
That transmutes a base fuel to the unknown
Realm of driven turbines, coiled dragons
And their treacherous ilk. A burst tube bludgeons
Three men to death with steam-pressured burning
On a frantic day, on a worker’s morning.
There are other causalities. Those who breathe
For years the trace cadmium that will wreath
Us tomorrow in the grit of fly ash
And tomorrow after that. The mishmash
Of raining residue, and broken words
Flutter aside the landscape like black birds
Eying their petulant, bewildered prey.
Conveyed upwards, a diagonal skyway
Crosses the stacks: our heaven so infused.
On earth we bow our heads to art, confused
By what’s above, the ruts of power lines
Birthing creations, etching life’s designs.
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