From the Valley of December to the U.S.
Emile DeWeaver

i am Production, not man.
My home is brown snow
Rusted rivets
And black smoke
Beneath rumbling red
Dawn. My father’s dust blows
Where silence sits
On bones bugs won’t eat.
Where ears lose the grind
Of machines beneath cries that
Don’t rise from our streets.

i kneel with alienkind
Outside consuming gates.
Pray you change my fate.

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