Sonnet #172

The end of times are here, they’re just

not evenly distributed, but look

The trash blown ragged at roadside edge

The people walking, there, how unjust

To them, all dreams lost, can’t unlook

at them but say how close is this edge

We glide like ice cubes over life, it’s just

That we don’t notice how we melt. Look:

The crumbling houses, where the edge

of cities yawn into the kudzu vines, just-

ice thumbs upon the poor, builds more, look:

The empty mine shafts and the lake’s edge

Where dead bird bones, a bit dissolved appear

The smog that chokes us out, we disappear

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