Dark Age - by S. Black

If only clouds, made from all colors but white, were more surreal, tinctured, their bounced light

could haiku blight from garbaged vacant lots and

garden the underworld, the troubled skepticism

of children accepting tiny packets from thinning

men and dashing to and fro. We must be sued to

send plundered reliquaries back to Cyprus from

Indianapolis no less, its petrochemical grasp,

our globe-trotting antiquity dealers traveling

far and fast, as if we can't envision a Coca Cola

super nation dripping with enough cash to make

us hack down statues, steal stained glass, just to

buy milk or meat. Flames of Rome dance to these

violins, shifting ashes into the eyes of children.

from Waterworn