Prefecture

Is there sea?

Is there the water within, to cool, to soothe?

Ash orange, bitter, the bite and grit of breath,

the scrape down the throat, everywhere dry,

everywhere the hot heat of hate,

boiling

from seven fires in a man's back

boiling

from a knee on another man's neck.

Breathing, burning, fists upraised; the air is not air

just acid gas smoke scream cry anger;

filth is a film upon the skin, it coats the lungs and keeps

the right words from being spoken.

Tar and fog and is there rain enough, when the matches kill you

in your sleep

and go again? Sometimes when you walk, you slip

along a clean clear line,

but now we walk blind and fall and there are many hands

to hold us down.

When it comes, it will be everywhere and

all at once.