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Dave Bonta
Clouds hide the top of Ice Mountain
and it looks like a real mountain again,
no turbines in sight.
Below, the ugly subdivision
where a black family once woke
to a burning cross.
I find a shed antler on the powerline,
a twisted Y like the bottom half
of a stick figure.
Entire landscape south
from Boston to N.Y.
cruddy, with technological waste, wreckage
as into darkness
moves this train.
An American, what can I do?
Strange flat ponds
still mirrors under still sky
with grey-brown fur protruding
in their midst - must be
the rough beast that lives there.
Can politics
do this? What
can I do, an American?
A general throwing up of hands!
The means of production