I remember dust storms and steel mountains,
tips of tree limbs who reached over barb wire,
scrap piles I deconstructed into bins
of copper, brass, efx out from mire.
My father’s fathers sorted their business
affairs with summits which grew though they dug
at themselves buried fingers shaped in fist:
claws who grasped at its hear and hacking lung.
My grandfather’s hand would cut cross his neck
and horizon unfinished to signal
quitting time at a loss for daylight to check
what lies buried beneath as it’s symbol.
For all that we cleaned, we came home dirty
to earth recycled men to make her pretty.
Author: Rj Wiechecki
I am a writer, both poet and philosopher. I do works of philosophy through the medium of poetry. I also do commissioned work as a poet as a business.