The clotting of ore makes ingot, simply.
Electrical storms skip and lurch through
The dark dust clouds that circle around clapped hands,
Just as blood passes, unrelenting, through singing pipes.
For now, nothing is equal: all is equal to itself
And industry understands only three emotions:
A jewel bug found on an upturned stone,
Put under the jackhammers, the sand rammers,
Washed upriver in a molten current, along
With the crude and the brine, body ruined
And memory banished, to fold into the great grey pull,
Seaward, to tumble up on churning concrete tides.
Excavators leave their bite marks in clay
Ashen soot itches on the back of a knee,
And reveals itself inside a lung long after.
Water and earth were not meant to marry,
(Only coexist), and so they make mud in protest.
Boots are scraped off at the end of the working day.
III: Negative Pleasure.
Fail under black gravity and drown in reverse.
The palette of the sky wanes, as The Firmament shudders
She may never heal, her loving grace is not unlike oil
Or gemstones. Over the lowly, all-stirring chiefdoms
Of industry, their might and their misery, Her rejection
Of the hammer hangs like the jawbone on the inside of a cheek.