Elegy for a Chinese (or any other) mineworker
I have an image of a flag
That is soundless,
The wind ceased
Dropped anchor
Left town like in a hustle
Unrehearsed.
I hear sirens, bored but smitten
With a terror of their own
Wailing past a dark breeze
Which was cancelled,
From above, by decree
For a risk, below,
calculated
Inside a canary mine,
Where headlights
Fumbled, clutched,
bent over and choked
till the wet wall itself
grimaced at the CH4,
and sorrow alone, unable,
could not hold back
the roof,
as lips outside quivered,
till hope flickered,
while the gold on rails,
was lifted, foisted, removed
gingerly and carried out quietly,
and left eclipsed by
the black sun
that fires the boiler,
that powers the turbine,
that runs the generator
that brings in the orange glow
Above,
From the down, below.
