7.

 

Standing on the oozing edge of blacktop

in the rosy dark

I listen to the enormous metallic hum,

the multitude of conversation passing above me,

a high-wire cacophony

in a dark desert.

The sound sucks me in and

I cannot decipher or delineate

anything.

Not myself,

the dark, light,

night, day, left, right,

good, bad, or

where the edge is

and why there needs to be

a form, something contained.

 

I struggle and open

my eyes.  The drone continues,

ominous in the deepening night.

 

A plant,

one of thousands

cultivated in the machine-sowed, tended rows

raises it chemical-prodded

green flag to the evening.

 

I stoop

and stroke its leaves.

Suddenly

 

I am

less afraid.

 

---

Note: "7" is  from the Notes from the Red Zone, 
Seven Kitchens, 2009